Tears on the white, iced branches—
each limb holding its breath.

Ice reports from Minneapolis.
Minnehaha—
the waterfall in the mill city,
every fall falling
into silence.

each fear
that freezes the warm living room.

Only knees strain toward heaven,
bending to receive
the flying light of frozen water.

Lord, have mercy on this place.
Lord, baptize again
with divine thunder.

Sensing beginning and ending at once,
seeing through time and space,
we walk—slow, steady—
silent beneath suffering.

Each knee endures the pain of unfreedom,
and each back bears the weight of that injustice.

Minnesota under ice.

Then—
the rise of thunder, dissonant,
ice breaking somewhere
a million miles above,
answered by ice statues
on the frozen congregational floor
of Bdé Óta Othúŋwe—
the Town of Many Lakes.

From the bottom of quiet
along the C Line,
songs are born—
silent songs—
splintering thunderously
each single cube of ice,

Behold! Can you not hear it?

There, in that street,
a symphony of silence
stands against the winter storm,
melting it
with its quiet warmth.

Every knee shall bow
to the poet of
of each knee.

-TaeHun Yoon

January 25, 2026