White pulses against the wooden walls.
I stand at the window and knock.
The glass echoes cold.
I am the fish inside the aquarium.
The glass climbs two stories high, stretches the width of the room.
Cold white sits on me, on the carpet.
The room's shadows are black fragments, scattering the light.
And the snow keeps falling, blanking out the Easter tones of almost-green.
It's there, just underneath.
The fat white may try to smother it, but it's still there.
Spring will still come.
-3.26.2014
YOU ARE READING
Skin
PoetryPoetry. A touch of travel writing: Ethiopia, Oxford, Belgium, Colorado. A lick of nature writing. Some grief. All poetry.
