It starts like a flake,
It holds to life,
Before it snows,
It was a snowflake,
Like a fetus,
Before we call it human.
The womb holds its
First secrets from the snow,
A hidden workshop carved in ice,
Where cells divide in silver silence.
Outside, the world sees only drifts,
A barren crust of frozen white—
Unaware of the pulse beneath the frost,
The intricate lace of a beating heart.
A season held in stasis,
Where breath is frost and bone is ice,
Waiting for the thaw to break
The silence of the white.
Just how winter makes me
It arouses the feeling
Of being alone,
Of wanting to build a snowman,
Of smiling endlessly.
But all is white;
I miss the sun.