woke up to the whitest
tempest
of ideas,
lying still
pondering,
powdering as flakes
of love were falling down and I
should go get them quick —
groceries. food
for thoughts.
for tough
minds and hearts and
blinds
like mine. food for mines
(antipersonnel)
that I should avoid as well as heaps
of snow covering all peace
-fully —
i’m a weightlifter
of boots and hearts.
lost in white is
my way, as is yours,
and the moon
‘s
softness,
for this overwhelming screen is
weighing on my eyelids like
the heaviest tears of women before
and now
I have things to heave,
to ease —
ebbs. flows.
periods.
full
stops.
regular is only a word
some other people have invented
to make sure they control
their snowflake intake;
I am here lying
still
on a white surface,
waiting for the beautifullest
– irregular –
snowflake to drop
again
on my tongue,
again and again.
Hiroshimem 