Snow Forest

Dear blank space—I’ve been thinking
About messages today,

How strange it is we humans
Find comfort in emptiness

Littered with little black sticks
Like a taiga, find comfort

In a voice we imagine
As a wind blowing through them.

In the coldest tree climate,
In the faceless snow forest,

We can find companionship,
Affection, consolation.

These words are real and solid
As wood, although they can be,

Like any woods, destroyed—burned,
Cut, splintered, struck by lightning.

These black sticks in emptiness
Have physical existence.

Only the recipients
Of messages are ghosts.