The snow torches my face.
Calm, I sway in the gentle winds of change.
Soon I’ll see what’s over the snowbank.
The icy hot grip of my hands begin to climb, the winter still weary of my presence.
Again, I am slipping, grasping the light. The lightly packed snow, fragile beneath my touch.
Falling I sing, headed for the packed snow.
The fall is hard.
The feeling is good.
I look up at the swirling winter sky, cut by the looming snow bank which continues to challenge me.
One day, I will feel.
-The Poetry Wizard
Photo from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snow