Pandora's box held Despair 
it held the fated end,

humanity held in a snare
of their own offends

but after the release, 

in the box remained
a single little spirit

a scant, simple thing; chained
glowing a dull chalcopyrite

a gentle glow that won't cease.

the darkness is swirling, curling
drowning all who look

but this slight spirit with wings of a starling
could fly high over the hills and brooks
of all the sneaking Despair

but for now this spirit stays
stays in the shuttered box

cloistered and hidden away
till the lid pops

and Hope can come back to humanity.

Like a gear slowly rusting

With feet like cement

We are zombies of snow and sleet

Brain fog taking control

Hands turned to ice at the end of stiff limbs

Rigor mortis like a dead soul in warm blood

How to hold anyone with fingers like the dead?

Mind fighting with mouth to open up

and sculpt the thoughts to words 

And shaking blood to the ends of the toes

Chiseled smile and eyes like ice

Running like a frozen stream

Winter is the time for rest 

But none is what we get

Creaking and groaning, press on and up

And every once in a while look

And see the glittering snow on the pines

The pale pink that the clouds turn

As if they see us looking

And start to blush

Diamond are the hills

And the soles of our shoes

With snow coating every surface

And we remind ourselves to tunnel 

Until we find not the spear of an icicle

But a blade of greenery.

Poetry has a silent power 

In the way that poets 

don’t need words to communicate 

With one another; 

We simply see a wildflower 

Sprouting from a chip in concrete, 

Or the sky 

Smattered with stars, 

Or a tree branch 

Coiled with winter lights, 

And our eyes shimmer; 

Our breaths lengthen,

Our lungs blossoming with each one,

The corners of our lips turning up

Until we reach into our bags

To pull out a pen

And start scrawling

On whatever paper we have

Crumpled into our pockets;

As we write,

We can watch one another’s eyes flick

Subtly up towards the sun,

And feel our hearts 

Being handed a gift

By the raw veins of another,

And within creases of the wrapping,

We are given all the words

A poem contains,

Plus every one that cannot fit;

We do this all silently,

Cupping the world in our palms,

Tilting it towards the sun

Along with our own subtle glances.