The Whiteness
A few dead sparrows in the snow this morning.
“They are always with us.”
The voice sounds biblical.
Word-shadows move behind my eyes.
A frozen sky sits across
naked trees.
I cannot see the snow,
only the whiteness.
If I had fox ears, they would be pricked,
flicking this way and that.
Nothing dragged off,
nothing gnawed and left.
“Nothing is lost.”
I am able to count the feathers;
those lilies of the fields,
but only if I close my eyes
and let the whiteness show me.
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