The Seizure of the Four-Winged Bird

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The bird had scarcely entered
when the cold took hold.
Its breath became winter,
its feathers silvered with frost.

In vain it struggled—

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Yet beneath its own dark wings
another pair unfolded:
thin as glass,
bright as a butterfly,
veined with hidden fire.

Then from the cloud
a voice descended:

Seize it
.t.

So I reached into the cold,
not to destroy,
but to hold still
what would otherwise scatter.

The bird trembled once,
then grew quiet.

And in that stillness
something unseen
began to burn.