I find myself wishing it would snow at the oddest times
mid-January,
in the middle of an argument,
standing in a garden looking at a grey statue -
a girl with a bowed head.
The desire for flakes -
deep flakes
six-sided flakes,
small and fluffy and heavy and wet and dry -
comes -
a sharp pang and then gone
a longing unable to be lingered over
leaving before common sense tells me that it's May
and the flowers are much nicer than the icy wind and frozen water of January.
But.
Still
I yearn
in small bursts
lighting flashes of illumination
for the silence of my memories -
so very different from this apartment
and this too-large room
with its too-white walls
and the too-much darkness it contains.
The wish for snow,
is, after all,
a desire for home,
for the security I feel walking through our cemetery
with flakes on my scarf
ice on the road
the orange glow of life and shopping centers lighting the sky
when the moon hides her face -
the cloudy veil she prefers in the nether months.
Snow smothers all
fear;
after all
it seems silly to be afraid
when you are crunching through foot high crystals
decked with dozens of layers of fabric
knowing you can't run
in your new boots
but who is there to run from?
All the muggers and drunkards and dangerous men are huddled inside,
cursing the elements you move so deftly through -
your natural element,
your phase,
your season,
born on the brink of snow,
hours before the earth we walk upon
turns back towards the light once again,
and you are comfortable
with the darkness,
the cold
the snow
and where once you hated how
the feminine
was seen as dark and cold
and the things that are not,
you understand now,
longings in your imagination -
that nexus of feminine power -
called forth by the wish for the safety
of the snowflake
and the naming of the soul-home
that holds you.
The silence -
a cold December night.
