papirfugl

Snowflakes

That day, like every day before,
you counted on that schoolyard
eight wooden bull’s eyes, nailed.

Yet, they froze you in their sight.
In their palms, a million snowflakes
melted and then crystallized

into snowballs to be hurled
at those too easily defined
and spotted on the white background.

Quickly turning, taking steps
too long for little feet to take,
you fell, and felt how snowflakes can

like ignorance, lie quietly,
its arguments too light, too weak,
too easily silenced to be heard.

Or as you have learned:
It is the hands and not the voice
that gets to hurl the final word.