Something people don't tell you about the snow
is the way that it melts. No, that's something
you've got to experience for the first time, feet
stepping down on grayness personified into slush.
And yet, even when it's all melting, there can still
be that top layer of perfect white, pristine. Hiding
what lies beneath. It'll crackle when you step on
it, crackles and shatters as it melts onto your boot.
I find myself sympathizing with that top layer
more often than not, knowing myself to occasionally
shatter, the soft gooey bits getting all over the place
as the facade crumbles into a dozen melting pieces.
Which is how I find myself staying up late enough to
hear the snow plow scream, the painful howl as metal
meets pavement and keeps on going despite resistance
that it meets. I feel that in my soul right about now.
Maybe it's just this week, and the last one, and the
last one all piled up atop one another as the world
burns, and I'm here wiping salt from my lashes because
despite everything happening, the little things hurt most.
I find myself sympathizing with the sound of pain
made by the snow plow's plow, screeching out against
the night and the moon and the snow and the quiet.
Given the chance, I'd make that noise too, I fear.
And yet here I am, writing my pain to paper, worrying
about the little things until sleep claims me and I wake
up the next morning to plowed streets and people walking,
not knowing of the metal pain echoing and orange lights flashing.
It shouldn't be this hard, and yet, the cold numbs all
in ways that no one ever tells you about because who
wants to discuss those sorts of things? The snow will
keep falling, regardless of the warnings covering all the slush.
And the snow plow will continue to scream.
