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.)