standing
in the not falling snow
not hearing
the voice
of god
*
the colder
it gets
the slower
the crickets
sing
*
telling it
to hush, that voice
that says
you are not
enough
*
eventually
you notice it,
like a painting
no longer there,
the chirrup gone
*
it’s so quiet
the moon
as it rises
at least so it seems
from here
*
the urge comes
to sit
the stone
beneath you
already there