There is an act of self preservation in the first snow.
The way it comes, harsh and plentiful.
The way it goes, minus song and repose.
I had begun to think these times were not for me.
Melted moments of yesteryear’s atrocities.
Now I ponder upon granite stone.
Blowing in the wind of unknown.
To never find kindness in the bitter and caressing skin of frost.
Will be just another loss.