I've spoken ten futures
into the eye of a winter's white-
blinded was. I'll speak one more.
I'll tell it, not blinking, what it will see
isn't what was, isn't what was lost,
but it is what we've learned. From it,
I'll take the chill. I've taken its biting
wind, to speak. And so, to speak
to it, I speak a name first. It assures
me. The eye of winter reassures me
there's a web hidden in its cataract
white, whiter still. Hidden in those
sticky crystals is a future too.
If you'll speak it to me.