Blizzard in a Field

I shut my eyes, the whiteout’s
there. Lashes are fences,
openings that close.

Trees are brooms for snow.
Buoys of snow circumnavigate.
A streak of woods, a train.

This place is the missing you.
The passion of this field
is the emptiness of its light.

– ph, Sheffield, Wentworth, ON

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