Cold and snow in January: a novel idea.



This experience, this state I'm in, is hard for me to think on. It lacks borders, and definition.
It is, like snow, limited by its name-- simplified, and constrained by my idea of it.
What does 'snow' mean? How is that little word experienced?
There is so much more to it than those four letters.
It is a concept- a reality- fueled by a thousand hopes and memories.
It may be pure, ornamented by innocent wishes.
A blanket in winter. A reason to curse, or to praise.
It may become polluted by many feet, by tires, and microscopic elements unseen.
It may be complete joy, or abject dismay... It may request silence to ponder all these things.
Yes, an inner quiet echoing its own.
A surrender to the snow day, with all its inconvenience and potential for joy and disaster.
It must snow, snow, snow.