I wonder at the weight of a Sparrow.

I still cry on waking. I'm not sure why. I feel nothing. Nothing I can name, anyway. It's like breathing - something that happens over which I have no control. (6)

Chance. It weaves through our lives like a golden thread, sometimes knotting, tangling, and breaking along the way. Loose threads are left hanging, but the in and out, the back and forth continues, the weaving goes on. It doesn't stop.

I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.

Tell me who I am. (29)

Multiple closets for different needs. Overkill.

The world before us is a postcard, and I imagine the story we are writing on it.