In the still of snowfall, lovely shades of grey beckon me into the trees.
They reason, “The air is calm the ashes are yet warm from their journey behind the clouds.”
Indeed, the ground is softened by them, dimensions blurred together.
I admire the obscured familiar landscape, as if it were an old friend in costume.
Unable to resist the tempting glisten of frost bitten pine needles,
I layer myself into the pages of trees. Snow anxiously covers my tracks.
The thirsty wind guzzles the color from my cheeks and eyes.
I too, am made indescript.
Each snowflake whispers its name to me as it flutters to the ground in a cloak of commonality.
I murmur my own name into the swallowing silence.
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