Globe

Snow. It was the first word I learned. Alone. That was the second. The bone-chill of immense cold is everything. I cannot seem to recall a time without the drifts that surround my meager wooden cabin. As if from a dream I recall there are other words. Sun. Warmth. Family. There might've been trees under those mausoleums of snow. I like to imagine there could be. Then there are the quakes. They always follow haunting music that is either inside me or everywhere.

There it is now. It’s so lovely, it makes me want to die.

The snow is coming.