snowfall

The vertical fence posts planted in my garden last year are the earthbound foreground of an experiment for today. Pointing to the sky, like a row of pencils, they border the significance of choice among a myriad of ways to create new perspectives on a day (daylight is short at this time of year). The red points of the stakes have clearly taken on new form and color. Their rusty red tips, once the tools of a proofreader, are now soft, blunt, dull and grey as erasers. Perhaps they have become the stubs of a universal conscience with which poets communicate, or the toothless gum of a Muse?