Snowflakes tatter the paper
in a pitter-patter,
drifting down
between twisted green junipers
where I hold
a small leather journal
and try to write
with a naked hand.
Flakes sink into the page,
each with the faintest sound,
disappearing where they melt
like little ships beneath the waves.
Fingers turn numb
while my heart beats with feeling.
The falling ice crystals blotch my ink,
and stamp
the texture
of this silent,
soft afternoon
better than any word.
Though I would not remember
these krinkles
without the words—
each an epitaph
to a moment of awareness
when I felt the touch of life on my cheeks
like white confetti
raining down from castle walls
as a Knight returned home
Glorious.
