If winter cut like a knife, it was a dull knife, 
a weak, aching tool.  The nights were longer
than the days were short, and the days *were* short.
The sun's teeth chattered.  Its advice was no help.

As the snow melted we found leaves again, 
fallen from the ears of trees, where the birds
had pulled them down with feathered typewriters
from out of the mouths of stars. We found the leaves 

from under snow, about to be swept away.
But we found them. We read their veins, we read the lines
on our wrists and hands, and we began to remember

how to hold the tools that build our lives: 
cupped in a curved palm held to one ear.  Listening.

---

(Bonus remix stanza:
Stick this in instead of the fist stanza.  It's less relevant, but it sounds
cooler, IMO)

The nights were longer than the days were short, 
and the days *were* short.  They blinked and you missed them.
The sun stuttered in and out of clouds.  Even the trees
couldn't hear a word it was saying.  

1 responses total.

I definately like parts of each of the first stanza options.  Were I you,
I'd wittle together the best parts.  Stuff I liked: feathered
typerwriters, the way the veins of the leaves slide into the images of
hands and wrists, trees having ears and stars having mouths...  And
'specially liked the last two lines, beautiful closure.

And it goes without saying that I hate you, of course. d=

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