Snow
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How to write about
something poetic
when I no longer
think poetically?
This city beats
the poetry right out of you,
as this country
buries its miners and burns its women.
Of course, life
beats the poetry out of you, too.
It is snowing in
Istanbul late on a February night,
snow swirling
around slender, mute minarets,
a black kitten
slinking up a soft white street,
mistaking the
gulls chanting for the azhan.
Hass once wrote
that beneath the sorrow,
the world makes a
kind of singing.
But I believe the
world is always singing, if you care to listen.
The rare moment is
when silence settles over you
and all that you
have been and done and lost and loved,
the silence of
snow.
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