white

ice rain, like freezing glass covering my little home; my little twirling honeycomb of wood and paint, my twisting reverie, always bundling myself like wrapped paper towards what has become a white winter ; hands like cupped eyes circling the sky, holding bits of atmosphere in my skin , remembering that down at the stream; down where the water trickles so slowly it icicles itself into a molasses embrace; down by the stacks of stones placing themselves like books upon a shelf, there is a quiet that knows only the cheek caress of firs and pines; that softly carries smoothed brown rocks from one place to another in silence // my sloshing snow feet fill themselves up with powder, i am a balloon, i am woolen and warmed by the amber glow of a fire that does not crackle but whispers heat lullabies like a dream // i am maybe winter now, cascading into white now, all buttercream eyelids and dream frosting ; folding myself into my own molasses embrace of myself, by the fire, cascading into white now

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