A lot more of than thought, unsought, come out white.
Lemurs of Madagascar, and leopards sans spots.
Brilliant, I think, to spurn pigment and burn
in December light, a December filament.
No one would know if there's snow in your hair,
or whether or not, when they knock, you are there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem