the snow begins in your eyes
when the wind drives the light
loudly from the poplars.
you must make up your mind
when your shadow leaves you
which paths you consider
for taking. the room grows cold
with the sounds of the snow.
there is a knock on the door. you open.
it's the old story.
someone recognises you
and tells you how things were.
you dry the words and hope
that they'll keep. but it's still only
september. you share out
your shadows by their weights,
fall lightly through the words,
which grow softer, fall silent,
when you turn to them
on pages of snow.

Translated by Catherine Hales