Snow makes its minimal monument:
The shape of what was done to me, but not its color
(remains, still) Recognizable
to me, underneath
an impermanent pigment
that will alter as it rests/
weighs upon and wets
//corrosive, I point and
to the blooming salt crystals.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
by Pablo Neruda
Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.