Underneath time is a white world,
full of blued shadows, cold winds
whispering indiscernible words.
There is long trudging through
deep curved drifts, obscuring
the way. Somehow, fear
becomes easier, the possibility of
death, real.
Somehow, the heart continues
to beat synchronized to our breath.
Sometimes, we find pieces of how
to make our way, pass brown travelers
uncertainly studying old maps. We hold on
to the branches of meaning and
see thin tubes of light
spearing the land ahead.
