I step into a canvas of blisteringly cool white
A pale paint on the ground
Covering all of the greens and browns
With a blanket of contradiction
My foot leaves a gap
Compacting and moving
Making a change where I never thought to
As I withdraw and take another step
Trees across a great ravine of pale shadow
Loom before me marvelous and magnificent
Harboring heaps of heavy snowfall
In branches like a mother's arms
My face turns up, and white freckles
Sprinkle my face, cold and calculated
Merging with me
An amalgamation of elements as they sink beneath my skin
My eyelashes flutter as I take in the wide open
An expanse of eternity
Wise waves of wintery weight waning and draining
All but my most basest desires
Spires of ice trickle down from trees, their water dripping down my back like an errant finger
Making me shudder in both delight
And discomfort in the greatest way–a way that spells clarity on my skin.
As I turn round toward the fading sun,
Just a cool glow of angellic beauty behind the clouds
My eyes follow shapes and colors down to the very place where I stand
Each indentation in the snow an indicator of where I've been.
My eyes shiver closed for a briefest moment
Before opening to see my exhale emerge
In a ghostly and glorious wave of gray
Against the skeletons standing guard around me, arms laden with snow
A fox lurks nearby, a silent observer of my calm demeanor
Unaware of what will happen when I, like the ground, will thaw
But for now, I maintain composure.
It's only me and the trees and a fox, and the breeze
My nose grows cold as winter strokes it softly
Turning it pink with sensation
A sweet and soft silence lingers around me
Arms of mercy against waves of harsh warmth beneath my surface
Muffled music of musing mockingbirds
Echo like knocks on a door
And I, like the cool midwinter, listen as a witness
All is silent, all is soft.
Miraculous things lay dormant beneath the snow
Waiting until springtime when they'll push weary arms up and stretch toward the sky
Ready to grow and rise from another season of slumber
I'll be here in this place again with a different sort of music greeting me.
Perhaps the flowers will sing joyfully in an unseen wind
Or perhaps the birds will bring new melodies to light
But I'll stand here, footprints left not in a canvas of white, but a wrinkled paper of growing things.
With one last breath of lovely things
And a glance toward a wise creature in its home
I turn back, feet guided by the knowledge that when I get home, this feeling will linger–
If only for a time–even as I turn out the lights.