Cinderella Reboot
Frances Witt
Sunday silence
and the silence of tall snow undisturbed
by the scraping of shovels
unguarded by mothers or stepmothers
we are trying to separate husk from seed
in other times free birds and dutiful ants were always willing to help
but now birds and ants turn reproachful backs on us
we have slept too long
entangled in overgrown hairs of disaster
the husk lovingly embraces the seed
muffles its voice
do they want to be separated?
let us sift through meanings
let the words drop like useless crutches
can you find poetry in the imprint of their fall?
and the silence of tall snow undisturbed
by the scraping of shovels
unguarded by mothers or stepmothers
we are trying to separate husk from seed
in other times free birds and dutiful ants were always willing to help
but now birds and ants turn reproachful backs on us
we have slept too long
entangled in overgrown hairs of disaster
the husk lovingly embraces the seed
muffles its voice
do they want to be separated?
let us sift through meanings
let the words drop like useless crutches
can you find poetry in the imprint of their fall?
Frances lives in Europe, takes long walks, sometimes in museums, sometimes in the woods. She writes poetry, and she translates. And sometimes she translates paintings or music or landscapes into words.