covering the lens with my hand, holding the receiver down. sucking in the spaces on the screen. the rope cannot hold up itself, falling into coils on the fertile ground which is frozen. the grace of my rachilla taken from view, as my stem is bend in an arch by wind and snow. only the blade of the knife stands. shafts of sunlight illuminating what is lost. i carry on, taking frozen laundry from the line as if it is a normal thing to do. replace living breath by crystals. colors erupting, one at the time, one per decade, till the full spectrum is reached. and it has. it always was there. finally i will leave on the clothes that i came with, come rain or shine.