When I came in from
the outside the carefully fallen snow that had powdered the sidewalk, which felt soft, like mother nature's teddy bear; it had been trampled by many a traveler on their way to who knows where; taking on the color of urban dirt, splashing unpleasantly at my feet. Yet when I finally returned to that sloping lane of cement, I discovered the river of slush completely frozen over by the deathly curfew of winter, and in that moment I knew; I knew that someone besides me understood how it's like to cry when tears are frozen before they can perform their destined fate of forming rivers of sadness across cheeks for all to see; Nature stings my face gently with her bitterness and we both laugh, for we cannot cry; the soft, gentle youth of freshly fallen snow has all but gone with the wind, leaving in its place a rigid, lifeless shell which seems suitable more for the errand of slicing a heart in half than gently cushioning its fall. If this were a Schubertian song, then all would call attention briefly to its sadness and move on, leaving the leiermann to continue toiling forever and ever and ever until one feels and sees and hears nothing |
Miscellaneous > Literature >