portion of the artwork for Sarah Sarai's poems

All Things Are Things
Sarah Sarai

After snow’s no longer falling on an earth
barren and grateful for the brush of

(a drift is a serendipity, shawl, flowing robe,
a brocade mantle, white on white),
it’s alert

to transformation, a sphinx looking up at
time’s daily sweep, changing shadows and
slow revelations

of shape. Snow knows no more than a sphinx.
“Now” is merely “now” and,
relative to history,

a magnification of identity. How else to be,
than as a seasonal tendency, groping
to cheat death.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 28 | Spring 2010