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I would like to say that the snow falls, but it does not. I would like to say that the snow thrashes and rages in billowy tempest, but it does not. It is only my spirit that falls, and it is only my mind that thrashes and rages.

The snow merely drifts and swirls on the whispering wind. It is beautiful and pristine, ghostly and chaotic. It's clammy breath purges both the wormy wood of the forest before me and my soul. It's gentle blowing wets my cheek and sails nothings of love into my ear.

It is as death, cold, dark and inhospitable although it maintains it's ghastly beauty, yet I would gladly lie down amongst the crystals and sacrifice myself for her.

The curtains of white satin seem to seam off endlessly into the midnight sky, carrying on their backs the wonders and sapphire wishes of my captive heart as I press my cheek against the numbing glass of my window and long to drift on the whispering wind.

It is peaceful and serene and tranquil and unpredictable and omniscient, falling lazily amongst cedar and ash with palpable contempt.

Yet, condescending as it may be, it holds fast to the dying glow of a streetlight as if it knew something that Winter did not, meandering a funeral dirge to the host of pines and the carpet of gleaming, beckoning clear white January sky.

I grow cold, and the snow which embraces me tight to it's enigma offers little solace. I long for her, wherever she may be. To pull her close and teach her the wisdom of Winter. Yet, I am afraid to love her, for the chill air and my loneliness be jealous creatures.

I tell her that I love her (or I would if she were here), not knowing if requited love shall come from her lips or the cold. The snow dresses her hair in white and douses her being with illumined blue. She speaks and says she loves me too (or she would if she were here). I embrace and kiss the snow and let it caress my face to freeze my tears, for she is not.

The snow consoles me and tries to freeze my heart to numb the pain, but I am melancholy blue through and through. I take my sorrows and sadness and curse them to the wind, and I lie here on my windowsill. I bang my fist against the pane of frozen glass, for she is not here and the icy wind steals my courage like a silent assassin.

In vain, I freeze and sleep, kissed gently by blades of snow and carried away upon the whispering wind.

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