By each swirling snowflake, which remind you every
Year without fail of the off-white hospital room and how you thought
That falling snowflakes were a lot like a crumbling tower.
And now you know without a moments hesitation that you’re the tower which
Resembles now, more than anything, the snow in February,
You know the kind, half-melted, and off-colored from months of
Shoe-soles and snow-shovels to the face.
And the chill, it creeps through the deep fissures
In your armor and that’s all it takes, you never think to take heed
Bat an eyelash - you stay peacefully inattentive, distracted by delirium
Not a single tremor until the fateful day it reaches the thick
Of your bones and by then, what can you do
But sit in careful deliberate silence, for fear the next insubstantial upset might crash
Your world to pieces and through the cracks will spill
Sorrow and you’re too focused on staying alive and breathing to realize that
You’re already deceased and buried in your silence and your stillness.
Mahala Sarah Woodford
