Letters
Flakes, as numerous as letters,
as if every letter that ever was
were falling from the sky.
Each movement of the air takes them,
they twist and turn and turn and turn.
A few rush against the flow.
I open my mouth in an O,
feel their familiar feel on my tongue.
Flakes stick and hold together,
on branches, on twigs, in drifts, on roofs,
with a tenacity, as if they knew what they did
and meant something by it,
like people clinging together,
like refugees who cling to a sinking ship,
swarming over every projection and surface.
Overnight the world can change.
Flakes, as numerous as letters,
lie on the ground and a phrase -
the sky fell - drifts in my head.
Someone will have to clear all this up.
And later there will be a spring
when I will join trunk to roots,
sew blooms on every branch and stem
so the stitches donīt show, it looks real.
But for now the sky is empty
and the land has fallen silent,
the line between them, every feature, unclear
and slipping gently from the memory.
Mike
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