Looking into the blue avenue
I remember
a sea painted white
I hear
a tree calling out to the snow
“Please, give me shelter.”
I wonder
does this tree know
snow does not always fall
from the heavens -
at times,
blossoming into flower
like all these fires
burning millions of miles away
and why then is space said to be so cold?
Does the night
hold
no memories?
Is it a mirror
or, more cruelly
the other side of a coin
forever joined yet rent apart?
My right hand
a wave
threatening to crash over the birds
roosting in the other
white separates from white
the ocean doubtful grey and restless black
once more
the gulls take flight
and whose voice is it
that expects to be heard in the clamor?
It's only empty space
where something used to be
no one enters
no one leaves
only the echo goes on and on.
About the Creator
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