The wind stings my face, the driven flakes make my eyes water.
The cold is sweet in it’s bitterness, calming in it’s numbing softness.
My cheeks blush, but not the like the time she stole a kiss, mischievous girl.
The tall, naked branches are maps of the cracks in the cataract sky,
the crevices where blood flows from unkind words, and unshed tears.
I have so much of my own blood in those deep and hollow places.
A tear unshed can wash a hole in the sky, and the tenderness from you.
A wing and an arm broken off, and not around; still the face is serene in sorrow.
I touch his lips, to discern the words of loss and grief that is out of mind forever.
There is the wind. There is the snow. There is the cold. That answers everything.