Dispatch #121

Merry Christmas, friends!

Nashawannuck 

All ice, the pond is rough
with half-sunk sticks, 
branches, a past season’s detritus. 

The mangled calligraphy 
made legible 
by a gathering silence. Now snow 

sweeps out across the pond 
aligned with a field 
aligned with a cemetery, seamless— 

seamless 
as though a world 
were there to be unwritten.