for play, they make a mockery of it;
they create it out of nothing, like glass
pulls frost out of the empty air. The sky
is full of frost—or so it seems.
The frost has formed a kind of costume,
a costume so cold that most children can
make a sport of it. And do so
every day whether
they like it or not…
But if it is the cold, make it so simple that
it might be a child’s voice.
Make it a voice that’s difficult to speak.
Make it a voice that’s difficult to hear. Make it
a conversation between two old friends,
say, one that’s being overheard,
whispered, and one that
is left on the window, steely, icy
with the frost, with only wind
between them, with the sun, the wind,
the frost on the glass.
You think it’s youth that forms the gods?
You think it’s children who choke the dead?