Ice can be monotonous from a distance–
crystals merge into a plane of white
sharper than the sky, particles colder
than air. Here we are in this frozen
land, uncharacteristic, under
cover, the land and us.
Remember the bay tree, limbs big
as pipes to a small child
looking for inscape. To escape
observation by others in a land of
ochre and moss, rough and spongy
against a bony spine.
* * *
To go out in the ice-sketched snow
make indentations of form against
form, a footprint to be filled or erased
a mark or measure of whom or what
we used to be, a substance
or other, impressions recovered.
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