in the quiet place, when it snows

in wind-whipped vocals
pines howled rage against my absence


i was awkward
fumbling with my footing
across an uneven floor



thick dirt and
hard needles
swallowing my sound




the escape potential
of dizzying white on black on earth
filled with the hush of ice
and the stillness of cold



except the trees,





giants of my everything
with untold seasons weighing down
creating the arc of every bough
and skyscraping my sight,



they roared
in languishing, anguished heartache
that crept through my bones


as only love can





i offered up my apologies,
scattered them behind me
to trail my path away from home
and into the foreign-faced city


they fell limp

and tasteless



and were forgotten





but the silence settled on me again
as though i'd never been foolish enough
to wander away in the first place,
arms blanketed in arctic memory
that drew me into a sharp embrace


sharp with the sounds of my nothingness
sharp with the sounds of my completeness
with the sounds of my imperfection
with the sounds of my divinity





and in the midst
of this, my organic temple
where i am as devout as i am holy,
i took my hands from my pockets
and clutched the cold between my fingers
'til they were white and stiff
with the retreat of blood to warmer havens


as though my sacrifice
of flesh and tissue
were enough.



before me lay the road again,
asphalt begrudgingly out of place:
a rotted-black tongue thick with poisoned spittle


i have no crucifix to clutch
no hymn to sing in whispers



but i turn my eyes upward all the same



and bear witness to the witnesses
of a thousand million connected lives,
my own small existence entwined within
the very fibers of their bodies



the trees accept no prayer from me
but wait patiently for tomorrow
and the rebirth of our everything





i learn to be humbled
one lost footstep after another

and i learn to be awed
with the falling of the sun





in the quiet place



when it snows