Like a path out of the forest hidden beneath the snow, there seems to be some grand idea just below the surface. Dreamlike inspiration quickly fading like footprints in the drift. Our survival depends on our ability to scratch pen to paper and hand to head to make something tangible from thought before it vanishes.
That impassible white, equally mesmerizing and infuriating in its indifference. The page cares not for our words, yet we demand it be filled. We stumble through words and stutter our thoughts, grabbing loose metaphors from the air like snowflakes, only to watch them melt away from our pen.
Yet as many times as we retire in exasperation is as many times that we'll start again. For the drive to create and the need to relate outweighs our torturous view of the craft. Soon enough winter will break and words will sprout forth from the fertile ground of our minds. Bountiful metaphors and analogies will ripen for the picking and the path that has been there all along will be realized. Only then will we know for certain that spring has sprung again.

when you walk, the ocean follows, not as a copycat but out of pure admiration of something so beautiful
the wind wishes it could recreate the way your voice sounds in the stillness of the dark
the trees watch you through the myriad of their leaves and believe that one day, they will looks as elegant as you but they will have to try
the silhouettes of the mountains stretch themselves to be noticed just at the mere thought of you passing by.
and to think, i get to sit by you and know the secrets of your hand against mine.

My problem is I fear.

I hold on.

I never know when to give up.

I blindly wave my hands in front of me in hopes that I'll find a hidden door to paradise,

Althewhile I fully expect to never find something that will allow me to stop wandering.

If that wasn't enough,
I drag the locked doors that I find along the way behind me in hopes that,
one day,
they'll magically open.

you say these butterflies will fly away eventually
but we could choose for them to stay
the nectar on your skin is sweet enough
to keep them coming back

butterflies need to keep moving, flying all around
so we'll leave them in our stomachs
and give them the freedom that our love allows

we'll name each butterfly after our favorite candies
because we feel sweet inside
filled up with each other's love

when a storm hits i don't want the butterflies to flee
after all a storm fades into light
even when things get hard, our love will remain
because the butterflies gather for things deeper than beautiful feelings