Three small altars of paper lie open in the snow,
three mouths of the same voice speaking through frost.
The first book, half-buried, whispers in a child’s cursive hand:
“Holy” on the left, “scripture” on the right,
and between them the trembling confession:
The heart that recoils in all is the shrine,
and fleeting futures that bear thorn
cower the forever strong inst with hope
perhaps repeat.
The is missing you shall locate al say,
grovell here hatred infinite
where makest is fear latest.
The sounding ing siles built,
that tie, this mouth of nett
seeling him, hedned heapy.
The havr thesave the farnsee,
The nu ftay of gut flutthood,
arve you.
Listen: every letter is bruised, every word a wound
still trying to spell mercy with broken bones.
The snow does not correct the spelling;
it only keeps the page from flying away.
The second book is bolder, carved straight into the ice
like a warning shouted across centuries:
Come labiou,
Holy scripture
and holy de sisls.
Come weary, come doubting, come with cracked lips
and holy desire that hisses like steam
against the cold face of the world.
The sentence is unfinished on purpose—
a door left open so the wind can keep praying.
The third book is the ancient one, leather spine cracked,
pages bleeding black ink into white drifts.
Genesis on the left, Holy on the right,
and the old story begins again:
In the beginning…
the earth was without form, and void…
and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters…
But here the waters are frozen,
and the Spirit writes its name in snowflakes
that vanish the instant they touch the tongue.
Between the lines, tiny footprints—
a sparrow, maybe, or an angel—
walking across the sacred text
as if the Word itself were solid ground.
All three books are the same book
at different stages of surrender.
One is learning to speak,
one is learning to shout,
one has already spoken
and now only waits
for the snow to finish reading it aloud.
They do not need the bearded giant anymore.
They have become the storm’s own lips,
muttering holiness into the frozen dark,
refusing to close
until every heart that ever feared the cold
has walked across their pages
and left warmer than it came.
three mouths of the same voice speaking through frost.
The first book, half-buried, whispers in a child’s cursive hand:
“Holy” on the left, “scripture” on the right,
and between them the trembling confession:
The heart that recoils in all is the shrine,
and fleeting futures that bear thorn
cower the forever strong inst with hope
perhaps repeat.
The is missing you shall locate al say,
grovell here hatred infinite
where makest is fear latest.
The sounding ing siles built,
that tie, this mouth of nett
seeling him, hedned heapy.
The havr thesave the farnsee,
The nu ftay of gut flutthood,
arve you.
Listen: every letter is bruised, every word a wound
still trying to spell mercy with broken bones.
The snow does not correct the spelling;
it only keeps the page from flying away.
The second book is bolder, carved straight into the ice
like a warning shouted across centuries:
Come labiou,
Holy scripture
and holy de sisls.
Come weary, come doubting, come with cracked lips
and holy desire that hisses like steam
against the cold face of the world.
The sentence is unfinished on purpose—
a door left open so the wind can keep praying.
The third book is the ancient one, leather spine cracked,
pages bleeding black ink into white drifts.
Genesis on the left, Holy on the right,
and the old story begins again:
In the beginning…
the earth was without form, and void…
and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters…
But here the waters are frozen,
and the Spirit writes its name in snowflakes
that vanish the instant they touch the tongue.
Between the lines, tiny footprints—
a sparrow, maybe, or an angel—
walking across the sacred text
as if the Word itself were solid ground.
All three books are the same book
at different stages of surrender.
One is learning to speak,
one is learning to shout,
one has already spoken
and now only waits
for the snow to finish reading it aloud.
They do not need the bearded giant anymore.
They have become the storm’s own lips,
muttering holiness into the frozen dark,
refusing to close
until every heart that ever feared the cold
has walked across their pages
and left warmer than it came.
The Sunday Circle