I am

January 2002--Revised March 2011

I am the wind that whips through the trees on a cold November day.

I am the whistle of the storm, trailing the leaves, dancing softly.

The cold is intense and penetrating.

It is deep inside my bones, freezing the marrow.

My hands are thin, transparent, a gentle blue.

The red of my blood is turning to ice.

My heart beats slowly guarding their time.

The leaves have turned and the rains have stopped.

I am the pure white snow that falls delicately to the hard artic ground.

The ground is life-less as I touch it, bare and bitter.

It is rigid and unyielding,

holding tightly to its frozen exterior, unbreakable.

I am the darkness that cascades over the winter like a black, thick layer of stillness.

I am the silence of nightfall as the dawn breaks.

I am the lingering stars in the heavens; I am the moon full in the sky.

I am the pulse of a heartbeat and the trace of life that flows fainter through my veins.

I am the reflection in the mirror and a hard, deliberate swallow.

I am the deep, unforgiving color of charcoal.