All of life seems to be buried this morning.
The morning sun has no one to wake.
The pine trees have no choice but to whistle.
Their boughs and needles voracious under the weight of snow.
I have taken time to know you, by way of this night storm,
by way of isolated moments that seem absent,
struggle to live now, they call in whispers from the ground, your mystery.
Do you remember yesterday when we were water
and our words flowed like songs in the rain,
our children carried joy to the rivers.
And, by way of truth, memories become illusions
surely, we were more often ice, a cracked foundation
playing sympathy with this fabrication, a frozen reality, this here life.
Mercy be found in this storm, it seems when our words return to us
they bury us slowly, gentle reminders that drop, one crystal at a time,
heap upon heap until our pines can only whisper, I still live
and tomorrow I will be water and you will be light.