White Ink

The storm began gently,

cooing like some young animal.

Snowflakes silently laid themselves on the ground;

not in protest, but in peace and restfulness

well-deserved after such a long journey.

I too have traveled a while,

making my mark and melting away at dawn,

to leave an empty bed or the ashes

of a campfire behind.

The snowdrifts and ice floes, along

their respective roads and rivers,

tell stories of the storm and how

it came to be.

But what began as flurries soon erupted

into a blizzard. An icy blur smeared

white ink everywhere–

frozen lakes became frozen meadows,

valleys became glaciers, and sight became blindness.

Behind me, my footprints returned to an untouched

slate. My hair changed from black to white,

and my fingers and toes from white to black.

And the stories of the snowdrifts and ice floes

become unwritten again.

They plead to be remembered.

The lacy white calligraphy that sprinkled

and detailed the landscape grew into a flood,

a massive spill of wordless, blank ink that

obscured what surely was a grand and

compelling narrative.

I too have felt the icy chill wash over me

and erase me, and while I was purified by clean

crystals of water, I was purged.

The white ink still coated my sight when I awoke,

but I found that it was not snow. No,

it was the walls of a place where the fallen cannot stand,

the standing may not wander, and where the stories

may not escape.