Cloth by Marie Lightman

I am not a silent poet

And it starts to snow. Flakes stick to hair loose
from her veil as she stands on the plinth.

Her shroud on a stick. A phantom with no
eye sockets, she sees all of you.

Snow slides off a branch, she blinks and is grabbed,
imprisoned, for the will to show herself.

She leaves behind indents in white. Others
will come after and stand in her footprints.

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