The frozen leaves –
if you are in the creative soul’s hell, you will see them:
all the mis-told stories, all pathetic poems, all the letters you wrote, all diary pages, all the lecture notes, grocery lists, excuses to your children’s teachers, silly postcards, and – all the music –
cold, still, looking strange, wrong, handled with or without care, and then re-sent – deep frozen.
(Our hell isn’t a warm place. We call it Nifelheim.)