My idols are no longer
mine. The attic gathers
this truth in all the dust
it knows: this slow falling
like first snow. How outside
a hare inks its paws into
winter’s inconsolable white blanket,
already wiser than I have ever
been. The frost crystallizes
this barrenness in silent lulls.
I am learning to do the same
in their absence. With this poem,
I have achieved everything
& nothing. The light crackles.
I must think in tomorrows now.

—Serrina Zou

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