Snowflakes. Only movement.                      Twilight comes until twilight goes.                                                                                                              Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.             The deeper the night,

the colder the darkness.                                                                                                    

My January breath suspended,                        my thoughts wishing to go                                                                                                         somewhere. Anywhere, other than here.            A deafening                                      

winter silence.

The air is slow.Still. Almost.                Alone, even in the shadow                                                                                                                             of the streetlamps. Nobody to shield your ears from the cold,  

or dampen the inevitable.

Pointless the task, reviewing patterns and paths carved into the cartography of                                                                                              the ego. Realization. What once was, may never be. This season    

                                                                                                                  stays the longest.

Even with full sunlight. The wind, should it decide, rips through me.                                                                                                      Harsh. I am not here, not really. Permanent as my      

                                                               January breath.

Flurries obscure constellations and the moon. Isolation.

The circumference of my being

is reduced. Limited.    Blinded by temporal beauty        or tears.

Nothing has happened, or is  happening. The brazen wind chill                                                                                                    clashes with body heat, the atmosphere  the victor. Obvious.  

                                                    The world still gets in your eyes.

Time agape with a grey known only to the night. A solitary trek through the                                                                                      ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates the soul-crunching scream of  

                                                         a thousand snowflakes.

Beneath winter’s fickle facade, the ice cracks. The fragility of the planet apparent.                                                                    Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.   Gone. Time stands still. This is  

                                                                                                my January breath.

© 2015 j.g. lewi