Where the World Stands Cold

It’s snowing. Small flakes that piles and piles and piles upon its brothers’ backs and covers a hard frozen ground in white and pure and these tears have turned beautiful. It’s a chill that has frozen the movement of the stream, forcing it to pause and wait and observe everything it misses in its summer haste. It’s snowing, clinging to limbs and hair, crystalizing the greens and blues and I have hope for a world that can still weep in snowflakes.

And all these trees stand like haunting skeletons, collecting a purity openness, my-true-form-is-revealed they only see and know and accept in the shadows of gray tipped cloaks that fan over the land in cold months that turns the mind to warmth and comfort. Tonight, as white floats down from the heavens, as clouds catch the light and hold it hostage in the sky, the world will quiet. It will be a high silence, one fit for beauty and royalty and I can only hold your hand for so long.  But here in this land, changed so much beneath the powder, I find I can wrap my fingers around you without panic. My breath will stand between us and shrink the world, so that all I know, all I ever want to know, is laced in my fingers and caressing my cheek. This is where I will know you. It is snowing. Can you know me?