[Issue 10 / August 2014]

it is difficult to tell you of snow on the phone
where i sit in the window, it is hard —
the fall,
the falls

i think the moon perches on that twig for a reason
comparing whiteness
comparing notes, and time
when they both will melt away to
something dark and
reduced

silence is also snow
most days it seems like the soul
so white and some days,
almost eternal

all things are relenting in their color for snow
become white, become clones
their shapes however remain
unbent
and unchanged

spring seems so far away, like death —
on days like these, it is easy to believe
one will go on
non molten
and non red

room away from snow is a safe place
it keeps me away from
that which i am scared to become
and also that
which i have become

i wonder what snow will melt into —
not into slushy water, no
what does something indestructible become
(when destroyed)
is malleability a property of the soul ?

do i love snow ?
yes. as much as one can love
a white lie spread so thick you have no choice
but to believe it

*

Pooja Garg Singh is a Denver-based writer and poet. She writes on feminist issues and culture. Her articles and poems have been published in magazines like ‘The Feminist Wire’, ‘The Aerogram’ and ‘The Missing Slate’ and are forthcoming in some others. An ex-business journalist, Pooja now runs a content company, WordTree (www.wordtree.in).

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