Snow
When I moved here, it was the first time I had seen snow. I was twenty and
I stood in the snow for several hours, numbed and soaked to the bone, fascinated.
Naturally, I got frostbite-my hands and feet were thick, green and hard
like tomatoes. The doctors were incredulous: how could I not have known?
My feet and hands cracked every winter for five years afterwards, the skin
splintering. My feet were bloody.
So when I sit by my window filled with ice, I want to say to it: snow.
If I had only known you earlier, if I had been warned.
If I say it enough times the frost melts beneath my breath and I am left
with a running pane of glass, dirty rivulets of water like my feet, oozing
in the basin of cold water.
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