It is the berries under snow
the windows etched with ice
the smoke suspended, frozen, in air
the exhaust exiting the tailpipe
the steps slick as foot treads
the brown tree body creaking
the equation in the stars,
it is the sheen of snow under lamplight,
the shadow of branches under moonlight,
the crease of pages under candlelight
all in the hand
that gives and takes away,
all beneath the finger
that marks out the voids and the fillings,
the additions and subtractions,
the arithmetic of grace.
Marks out the voids and the fillings...
ReplyDeleteAmen.
Thank you for writing, Deborah.
I finally had some unborrowed words that needed to get out.
Delete