Because I Did Not Care To Write About the Snow
Because I did not care to write
about the snow
the blackbird pulls within itself,
sucking feathers into its vortex
like a footprint.
Surely there are meanings
to the ice-covered lake
turned white. We write
the words with our feet,
not guessing their meanings.
In the snow
the blackbird remains black.
The sky stutters.
It does not know
the essence of the ice
locked below.
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