Sharing the Carapace

There are times that the snow

looks pristine enough to eat.

Or possibly drink. The meta-

morphosis of melt. Everything

will be clean that final day.

And then there are times

the buds will stay clasped

as a purse, unwilling to divvy the

touch of maquillage;

a huddled sort of

beauty, like scallops in their armor,

refusing the egression from a mouth—

till the buntings trill their

octaves to the stratus,

hoisted beyond what

auricles can hear—

the limit of our lobes—

before they plummet

in the form of freed ovation,

water that’s been ransomed

from its freeze.

And then there are times

I can still pen something pretty.

For the wind has droned my name,

confided its furtive love

between our howls.

Andreas Gripp

January 20, 2026

RF Photo