small songs I sing
to join
my voice to other voices
hidden in the grass

Wednesday, January 4, 2012


Braille lines on a dry leaf,
a scribbled epigram of ice,
the roots of trees in boldface underground,
and the doe’s bones—

knobs and facets written in the snow,
the lovely long articulation of the spine
hugging the dear earth—
a closing parenthesis.

But snow keeps falling,
each new flake
a word unspoken,
soft against the tongue.

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