If I could hear your thoughts,
the use for speech—poor shephards at best—
would wither in minutes into white on mountains.
But the sound of snowfall isn't a metaphor
for the sound of a word falling.
The reflection of beauty in chaos
is a fist through an eye socket for the first time;
a scalding cauldron of soup teaching lessons
by almost-death; a white pixel that glows
because it is surrounded by everything it is not.