I have forgotten how to write a poem. How does it begin and end when you are only familiar with the broken part of a story. Find me a word, one that fits so well between the silence you adorn when the snow starts to fall. Maybe that's how you start, from the middle, the one winter when you fell for the snow.
Then it flows one word after another, like moments that fell in tune with the wind when you gently opened the windows to welcome the cold. Every other winter before becomes irrelevant; mere bitter winds that fell numb on your skin. How many fallen winters did it take you to fall in love with the way the cold feels against your bare skin?
Life blooms from out of nowhere amid the frozen desolation of all the fallen seasons of irrelevance; and from the middle of the story, a poem is born.
when the final snow sinks into the ground, the poem disappears as if it was never meant to stay. You sit beside the open window, gazing at the setting sun as it burns the words inked too deep inside your skin. Perhaps that's how it ends, when things that were never meant to stay become a remembrance burned too deep inside your skin.