By: L Firstenberg

We cover all that feels slapped by the chill of the beginning of december. Trees are bare and the sky is gray, but everything else is covered in crisp pure white. We pull out our old jackets, hats, and mittens. We smother ourselves in that nice fireplace feeling. Fire crackles and spires to bite the cold away and melt the frozen eyelashes. 

Seize that opportunity for warm huge jackets, to cover all that lies to be shown in moments of warmness. There are wings of freedom spread over that notion, anything can be covered. The dirty streets are filled with pillowy snow and puffer jackets come back into fad. That winged feeling writhes from the freedom of a safe space within our coats. Nothing can be sensed and all can be hidden.

Wouldn’t some of us much prefer to watch the snow fall?  Today there is no fireplace feeling. So the frostbite and goosebumps tug at me like the grip stronger than fire. The snowflakes start to look a bit sharper than they did before. Once pillowy and disguising, now treacherous, allowing anything to transpire.

The snow surrounds me and my hair whips around as a flame. As the cold concrete burns my sunken knees as I kneel over my secret. It feels sharp and smoldering. I didn’t wear my mittens today. It allowed me the freedom to scratch my itch and grip at weapon. I can do anything and put a coat over it.

My red cheeks and my red nose.

Red on the snow. 

The winter creeps inside of me.