Some tomorrow 
I’ll be older,
around a corner
once imagined,
to be remembered. 

So that was me
I’ll think, 
looking back. 

The slow voice,
the chiding
of my own future 
tense. 

Once I felt
myself turning,
the planet falling,
a blue globe,
the black field. 

Everywhere 
everything 
falling. 

All of us
snow,
the blizzard 
of humanity,
no two un-alike,
unlike true snow. 

I dreamt once
I fell in a garden 
and no one was there
to hear the sound
my heart made. 

cc: Chagall, 2026