I never imagined it. And I always thought you could create a life Like you construct yourself, In the dark, with your hands in the air of a dream.
But no. When it snows and is silent, bones are ancient with truth like skies so cold all of us reaching our hands up in the dark shudder in realization: creation is not a quiet stuttering dance. It is our stars bent on self-destruction, it is anything but a dream.
Waiting. Winter concise in tongue says, “It will never happen. It can’t.” Black birds chatty squeal “She’s forgotten, she’s forgotten you” like playground children in keep-away. Wood floorboards beneath my spine reason “Be content in memory, it is enough.”
I listen, and I wait. Only the snowy owl, rare in visits, winks “One day, one day. You’ll see.”