Snapshots you hang on your white walls
of holding hands in a blizzard...
too white to see it's there
but when you close your eyes, you know:
It really was a simple nothing,
just a recovery from falling under
in that place where the ice is too thin
to hold your weighty problems.
And you simply fall over as though dead
in a fluff of staticy white
and you stare at the sky stretched above you,
marble smooth and breakable.
Three thousand snowflakes descend
thundering down upon your eyelashes,
and they shatter into a million pieces
sending winter into a fury around you.
The cold cushions the sound of space,
that incessant chattering that your teeth make-
it's all lost, spiraling into a pretty white oblivion
becoming a nothing, like those bows under the tree.
You take a picture of this perfect world
where everything is close and warm...
you could touch the sky if only-
if only you had wings like snow flakes.
Because all you really want
is to hold a piece of the winter sky.
