the swarming of the white bees,
an errant swirl of snowflakes
chased by a singing wind.
All day long, words are gathering.
They flee away from my fingers
and tangle in the willow branches,
before fluttering across the globe.
I wait for news, until, after dark,
Areté, wearing her silvery cloak,
holds a lamp to veiled inscriptions
still eluding my interpretation.