Poetry Wednesday

White and Other Things

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

point again

to the blooming salt crystals.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Water
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
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.