Where the snow has fallen,
there grows not even the imagination of a flower.
Somewhere in my mind
it is always winter, so cold and fragile,
where our breaths are somehow thicker with life,
and everywhere is virgin white
in the silent blankets of an eternal snowfall.
The air itself is always so sharp,
the skies seem to reach higher, and my wonder
drifts slowly over the hills,
as my eyes wander the vanishing horizon
in search of a dream I could not name if you asked,
remembering a childhood that never was.
Where the snow has fallen,
there lie the graves of all my former selves,
buried in the imaginary season,
somehow better than they were,
forever out of any sight — like anyone who is gone.
Somewhere in my mind
this winter has never known
the thaw of a sun who was ever strong enough
to shrug off the chill of this frost.
The time is always morning,
and I have just awakened,
ageless in my fascination at every little thing:
who have I been, where have I gone,
what have I done, that somewhere
in me there is still such a vast
open country, spotless of any footprint,
the purest white as far as I behold, in frozen bloom?
