Sunday, 27 December 2009

Written in Snow

We lay our images, our words on the almost-cloth of snow and compare them: this frozen stem; this pattern that once led to flowers, to seeds; this eruption of something other than whiteness. We break them from branches, pick them up from the floor, pass them between us. We say, 'The trees are like lightning.' Our voices are loud against the snow. The sounds move quickly, on huffish breath, carrying meaning.

'Like lightning, that's good.'

'Yes, that's good. I'll have that.'

We collect them in our pockets and take them home to pile in the kitchen beside the cooker and ashtray. On each stem and sound, the ice is already melting.

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