Winter finds
the tops of mountains
Short of breath from the climb
Crystals shaped like snowflakes fall
On their cheeks, stung by the sun.
They wear long clothing with
Buttons that match: a uniform
Symbol that, though small, reflects
Defining strength and aptitude
And keeps them standing tall.
But when they climb back down
The home they return to
Is distant and virtuous and small.
A familiar pen writes papers and poems
To fill up the shelves of a well-crafted den.
It’s a habit more than a hobby, by now
They’ll have published at least one or two, by then.
On weekdays they travel to libraries and schools
Read books to children and sing.
When afternoon comes, they’ll be fighting for justice
With knowledge, compassion, and persevered dreams.
Winter is seen taking walks in the spring that can last up to 10 hours long
With friends, old and new, who walk right alongside- the journey, though tiresome, is strong.
They’ve grown a few inches, in shoes or in heel, and their childhood fears have finally nulled
Traveling far away, small spiders and mirrors, these terrors now trivial, lackluster, and dull.
Winter is a season that she once felt was impossible to feel like herself in, she’d say.
But now they have conquered the long blist’ring winds, and Teasdale’s Stars, and Woolf’s Dalloway.
They keep moving forward, inspired and stilled, by the pleas of a kid who once called out their name
In hopes of an answer, running up that hill, fiercely demands of them: Requiem for: identities lost and spirits regained.