Rite of Snow

A dance drifted on the mirror.
last section of rite season.
motion of gown - white face -
footprints that removing the floor.

27 years later in the glass he found his face.
Alone. Separated from the room.
Timeless, like the color of time on choreography paper.
But he still wanted to contort his hand.

"I'm not like I used to," he said, "But in this fragment you need me.
I am the snow ghost."

His voice was low. Like the bones crackle.
When in the exercise room was no more scenes.
Just the breath. Perhaps he was still there.


[CZ2001]