By Birgitte Brøndum


I have decided

that every time

I think of you

I will build

a little figurine of snow

and put it on my shelf.


And when it melts,

because of course

it will, I will

watch the water drip

drop by drop

down onto

the floor.


And when I have a little lake

I will make

a tiny paper swan

to sail on it.

And when its feeble

paper wings and paper neck

get soft and heavy,

because of course

they will, I will

pick up

the soggy paper carcass

and squeeze it

in my clenched fist

into a ball of pulp

and leave it

on my window sill.


And when it's dry

I will place it

in the pocket

of my summer coat

and when summer comes,

because of course

it will, I will

find it there

and think

of white feathers

and frozen lakes.