i miss the snow.
i miss the crunch of it under
my hiking boots,
the way if fell silently.
if you stood quietly, though,
you could hear how
silent it really is.
you could hear the flakes
landing on blackened branches,
barren and naked.
you could see the plume
of your own white breath
take flight like a dove
into the grey sky,
a part of you
lifted up to the weighted
limbs of murmuring trees,
a part of you to join
the falling snow,
silent.