This open field before me:
pristine, snow-covered --
impressions of planter’s rows:
ruled lines, implying rhythm.

This could be any place I want it to be:
a battleground, a place for brides --
anything is possible here,
just waiting to be written in the snow.

But the ground underneath is frozen.
My bones are frozen.

This is the true chill:
and all I can stand to do
is sit and count the planter’s rows
one by one by one.

12/05/2009

Posted on 12/05/2009
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