At first like a flock of doves scattering, then light that is not light melting in my palm. Because brilliance is a thing that buries. Like watching a child construct a child from balls of fresh snow; I mean the way I am watching a child roll a ball of snow and how all around him is light falling. Here, somewhere I can hear the wonderment of concealing. A whisper that says If I could just lay thick like a blanket—but I am too restless becoming a discarded coat in the laundry basket. All this snow and never a way to dig through it. Never a way to shovel toward what is actually near us. And the child is still rolling snowballs like luminescence, stacking them higher and higher. Placing scarves and bits of charcoal, a carrot and some twigs.
Danielle Rose is the author of AT FIRST & THEN (Black Lawrence Press '21.) Her recent work can be found in Palette Poetry, Hobart Pulp & Pithead Chapel. Twitter: @danirosepoet.