Trigger Warning
The blanket of
A winter’s first snow-
The forsythias wept
At the weight above them.
Frost mustered itself into
Fierce winds,
Frigid thoughts,
Famished feelings.
Flowers, dried, browned, gone.
Animals, starved and slept.
Me?
I was faded.
My face, ghastly.
Once iridescent, now turned
Matted shades of grayish blues.
Tranquility, that was,
And bleak misery.
My frozen conscience foresaw
Its self-destruction,
Understanding that it must melt
At some point.
But knowing my luck,
Maybe the process wouldn’t
Be so clean cut.
Parts of me seemed
To live on a glacier,
Or a snowy mountaintop
Where it was always icy enough
To keep my chilled mind intact.
I’d be fortunate
If it did so much as thaw
Just a little bit
For the warmer months.
Maybe for my cold mind,
There was no self-destruction.
Maybe it was just there,
Part of me indefinitely.
In spite of that
I still hoped that I’d be rid of
My winter symptoms
When a thousand snowfalls
Puddled into nothingness,
And all of the forsythias
Rose again,
Brighter and bolder
Than they’d ever grown before,
The sun was insurance
To the forsythias’ rebirth.
But maybe I wouldn’t spring the same.
Nothing ensured my survival.
Nothing much, anyways.