pockets full of snow,
hands cold as i tuck them in.
and in propinquity, i imagine:
that in all the moments left,
so quiet, with nothing to show,
so motionless, we are snow:
falling, from outreached heights
where all we thought was,
oh, how, like air, we are light.
and like a forest of trees,
we are too tall to see the
ground beneath our fallen knees.
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