in spite of love, the history of is or is not. Toward dread,darkness though dawn could be my guess, snow morphingto hardship, delight, mindless over and over. You forget
but I forgot so long ago. What does a single flake knowof its big/little fate? A very cold microscope mightseek out each never-the-same beauty. Snow’s
only choice: freeze. Or melt and flood. But falling meansright now back to prehistory where human isn’ta thing yet, nor glass born of fire. The making’s done,
a canvas rolled up, flown across an ocean that shares itsinfinity of vivid, all blues, reds, shadow, light, and wow—look at that!—I’m stunned. Genius opens
its very few colors, the body bent to paint that way,the arm no longer knows itself, nor the handa hand, nor the brain how…