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In the Frost of Today, I’m Already Dreaming of Spring
A Prose Poem
The white — blank canvas, ready to be marred, frozen solid to the touch — is the only thing I can see for what seems like miles. Even just a bare hand to the air’s chill seizes me in its embrace, the all-encompassing nature of desolation.
But I can close my eyes and imagine — color, so bright your eyes hurt, a warmth that feels like melting — what will be on the other side of these weeks and weeks of unearthly cold.
The frost hides the buds beneath a sheen of clear ice resin, and my dreams feel like they could make flowers bloom with just a thought.
But I can close my eyes and see — the sun beating down, the luscious wave of skin meeting rays, a day not too short in its span from dawn to dusk — the promise of another season of growth more than falter, of sunflower kisses more than freezing hands.
The snow may delight the children down the street, but I walk through it in tight boots, slush already dirtied at my feet. My face stings, little needles poking through from the cold, and I lift my scarf as a shroud against winter’s sharpening claws.
But I can close my eyes and think — sitting under a tree, allowing the breeze to ruffle my hair, sipping the season’s bounty with peaceful smiles — to the better…
