Poetry

Snow

And I can see those crystal smiles

flaking through the sky, passing here, staying there,

skipping over to those outstretched fingers

only to blush and shy away.

Replacing it, the older brother,

hammering down to flood the ground,

standing rigid and smooth

even against steady feet.

Poetry

This love

The page is white. Bright, brilliant.

Seeping onto it are reds, blues,

greens, purples, yellows.

There are no eyes,

but there are lips,

and an embrace, so close that the colours

merge, the figures

separate but still one.

Their clothes are plain,

because how can any garment

outshine the prism inside?