For every poem
I put here,
there are four more
never shared,
around six never written
and twenty-seven partially thought out.
For every word
that hits the body like a pointed
icicle, fractured from the eave,
whistling, shattering, dripping in ink
and finally melting into nothing
in the strong daylight of to dos-
there is still, every chance
for a point to form
itself. And so I just let gravity
weigh the choice-
to keep holding on or simply
let it melt away.
Painting by Pekka Halonen, 'Rock covered in ice and snow' c. 1911, Finnish National Gallery, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
