Letters Between Sundays

There’s a mystical feeling that winter brings.
A cold, crisp air that fills my lungs with life.
For nine months I was dead, only waiting for the cold to bring me back to life.

The snow brings a peaceful emptiness—like I’m alive but I don’t have to live.
Like I’m here but I don’t have to be present.
The cold frostbites your toes and your nose, even your emotions.

A snowflake holds its shape only in the right cold.
Not cold enough, it melts, turning into rain.
Just the slightest change can make a rainstorm.

Warmth leaves everything exposed,
but the cold invites a barricade beneath scarves
and wool of quiet breath.

If I break the ice beneath my feet,
I will drown in the puddle of water,
not wanting to be saved.

As the snow whispers in my ear to run and be free,
my boots stay put, frozen to the cement of this world.

A snowstorm can rage one night
and soften by morning, fragile enough for a snowman.
But even soft snow remembers the storm.

The beauty of the snow—glistening as the full moon hits at dusk.
Oh, how the first snowfall lays a perfect patch of white:
unbroken, untouched, gentle in its quiet.
Until you walk on it, leaving the footprints of that being,
leaving the cracks and the weight of everyone else.

The silence of night when the snow falls perfectly down,
no wind in sight.
A little girl with her hat and mittens on,
catching snowflakes on her tongue,
not realizing the snow is a reflection of herself.

Skin that glistens softly,
eyes that shimmer,
and a heart as delicate as untouched snow.

Be gentle with the snow while it’s here;
one day it will melt,
and you’ll be left with a puddle of mud,
drowning until it freezes again.