“Like white lace crumbled in night’s hand,” a poem by Stephen Fuller

Like white lace crumbled in night’s hand The snow fell to earth, a warehouse For memories each toile and cordonnet Wove between picots melting away into Night’s embrace. This, this is what remains. A thing more than dew, more than what coats The bare foot a child wears on an autumn morning, Air just cool enough to suck out the last of what lingers Inside it and deposit it on the soft green spears that cling To life. I have stumbled upon winter. Now we must push our hands into the pile Down deep enough to feel it, cool like kids wanted To be when it was the commodity of hallways Walked in trepidation for being recognized For who they actually were behind the costume. Night, in your hands, I discovered that thing I had wandered the halls for as a child. You crumbled the lace, then gave me snow To play in for a while until I could reweave The story absent details no longer needed. Yes, somewhere in a season that I’ve yet to name I arrive. I arrive. Let me repeat once more, To be sure you understand its significance: I arrive. Drape me in fresh drops of dew like when I was born.

12 Responses to ““Like white lace crumbled in night’s hand,” a poem by Stephen Fuller”

Lucy August 31, 2020

Wow. This is remarkable and breathtaking. I was stunned by the final line. This is absolutely beautiful and raw—wow! Amazing piece, it’s so captivating.

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