This morning there are holes in the new snow that covers the sidewalk on Goodwin. These drops of nothing in the pristine white reveal dark wet concrete beneath, glistening like lizard skin. I think today that I could be the snow, boundless and insistent, or a hole, which I'd describe as an absence of something expected that is more remarkable for what it makes room for than what it is. I'm definitely not the ground under my feet.
No, today I am a hole. Definitely. I make my footprints respectfully, and with caution.
In the shower I heard a quote from a Monk who once lived in Bolognia. He said something like "in the world of todays poetry there are many mice who, when dusted with flour, consider themselves millers."
But the holes in the snow are what speak loudest.