A foggy, cold, November morning. Lincoln spoke,
following a 2-hour oratory with two minutes
because he knew “we can not dedicate —
we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow” ground
covered, uncovered by grass and snow. Remembered.
Fine flakes so intricately small they disappear
against bright gray sky, roads and sidewalks.
In this forest, every surface takes some,
except for the creek, which accepts it
as brethren. I extend my bare hands.