rebecca collins

Rebecca Collins forayed into poetry in elementary school, when her teacher had the students make books of different forms of poetry. Rebecca’s included one poem shaped like a clock and another featuring alliteration; she still remembers both, though the book was lost back then. Since childhood, she has written plenty, but much of that was trashed due to self-doubt. Recently, the film Mythic Journeys taught her how everyone has a vital story that should be shared. And My Myth emerged. This is her first time being published, and she is grateful to all involved.

A Prose Poem

By Rebecca Collins


I came from snows after speaking with the wind, learning from it what I could, at least before I gained a body.  I did not shiver at the cold.  I, the snowbanks’ child, a unique water-crystal that shared qualities with others and connections to the one life…at least, that was how it was.  The shivers came later, prickling my skin and blurring my mind, fracturing me from my soul.  Those shivers were made of doubt, which, either loudly or incoherently, was disseminated by others who also shivered and who were also ambiguous and damaged.  At best, I became lost in the snowbanks, trying to recall my identity with their – and my – true origin and nature.

Snow is not impersonal.  Even avalanches, with their threats and enactments of injury and death, created or formed this survivor.  I distinguish between “created” and “formed”: often I let avalanches create me, my soul only knowing rigidity and lack of feeling; at rare times, I only let them outline me, while I created what those outlines would fully become.  The former is because while avalanches always left me signs of my potential, I frequently missed, or out of that same doubt, ignored, some or all of them, making excuses as to why I wasn’t able to see or follow them…so I became blank, and buried.

But now, some crystals melt while I remain.  Those still with me have the same strength that has returned myself to me.  We have learned what it is to be a snowbank, each of us shapes of what we have become and what we may become.  Even when parts of us go so that we can more truly be, even when we meet our transition-times, our souls are as constant as the morphing of our bodies.  One state releases another, but our existence, our oneness, is eternal.  So as doubt melts, I affirm: I am, and I am part of.