I walk in deep snow
with invisible snowshoes on.
in snow,
that has long-gone melted away
into other forms of meaning as delivery,
that provided other asides of nourishment.
I steady for the sky
where-from this snow came forth
to appear to me,
to whisper into me,
its wisdom of birth for then,
to backstory me with fluid account
even if I am only tears
in the listening
that I can provide.
time is not a flat surface weave to me.
there are worn spots,
a braidedness that appears to repeat
before my eyes,
a weave that defies rational representation,
interlace that bedazzles with bafflement,
the shape for pronouncement that precedes
where whispers about all of this, form.
I don’t want for the words.
I live for the breath
that delivers them.
that is the essence,
that gives me the coalescence of deep snow,
the timing of love,
and the lightness of being . . .
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