There is a field of flowers. All the flowers here are dead and dried and beautiful. As you walk through, and they rattle with the winter wind, there is a moment unnoticed. Slight, subtle, profound. And seeds embark upon the journey of your dress.
There is a cold in your eyes. And the sun carves and embosses the purple of your skin with warmthless rays cast from afar.
The snow has yet to veil.
Somewhere within trickles a stream and you think of it fondly. The drops hurt of a sweet known hurt, and the drops drip slow. Yet lo their progress against the soul.
Your hands are numb now and thumbly and undexterous, and your teeth ready to shatter; and you advance still against the shivers of the impending night, quietly hoping for spring. And you advance still against the shivers of the impending night.