Snow is flaking from clouds
In gentle, wistful breaths.
She stands. She watches.
The milky dancers cascade.
They float noiselessly
To the icy floor,
Shifting skies – pink-white to grey.
In one hand there's a box.
Cradled by her blurring fingers,
Like chilled mesh around the wood.
In the other, paper.
A fleck of it, a chipping,
A ripped and tattered
Piece of paper.
Beside the endless canvas
It’s pathetically brown.
Aged against the snow.
The paper cups a phrase.
One phrase.
It itches on the surface.
Scribbled and faded
By the frequent attention of her eyes.
She reads it too much.
Her eyes devour it,
like a familiar meal.
On occasions,
In the dark unknowns of the night,
It burns bright
And crisp
On the inside of her eyelids
And would appear,
All too often,
To play in her dreams.
