Snow is made of silence,
blankets that smother sound,
pieces of feathers that float
down to the trees,
whose leaves are curled,
baseball mitts to catch and hold
the clumps of cold white.
The scene was bare,
a bus stop,
crooked tree,
empty bench,
then heaven had its fun,
an angel's pillow fight,
now fluff and fallen angels
litter the ground
and words that litter the air,
are stolen by Jack Frost,
mere breaths of clouds.
They cannot be spelled
by any arrangement of twenty six.
No, they are spelled
by the patter of crystals on a coat hood.
No, they are merely patterns of light
that glitter by the street lamp.
No, they are merely
silence.
This assignment was to write a "Thingatude and Causality" poem. (None of us knew what that meant either)
ReplyDeleteWow. I loved what you did with the angels and pillow fight—that whole part. Also "the arrangement of twenty-six."
ReplyDeleteI love reading your writings. These are great.
-Brittany