The air was quiet. The snow tumbled forward like cold stars, like the universe bending over itself and scattering millions of years of debris across the naked land. The spring stems bent solemnly beneath the shower, prostrate, in final prayer. The summer gulls assumed the pose of stone, arching lovingly and tragically towards the cold sun. The autumn birch wept silently for the loss of the nudging earth, which finally grew still, as in death.
Death. The instant. The infinity. Perched between the cold tides of unrelenting winter, a forest of eyes stirs around me. Occupying the fragile space between my heat and the outward, expanding nothing.
It is 1939. A man touches my shoulder blade. His hand is heavy and hollow, like a thin rose shell, rocking its loving ocean for eternity. “Ashira l’adonai ki ga’oh ga’ah.” His voice wavers. His body seizes. His eyes burst blood. He crumples and does not rise. My mouth cannot contain the pressure of my scream. It utters merely one convulsion of breath. The flutter of an insect beneath the wash of night.
Shortlisted for my College’s poetry award contest
View the winning piece here
the weight may one day be too heavy.
“Ashira l’adonai ki ga’oh ga’ah”:
I will sing unto The Lord for He has triumphed gloriously.