Frost And Beauty Found In Stillness

Wintery bellows of cold undescribed,

See to it that I am not forgotten.

As the stillness that is death and the stillness

That describes life are entities all too separate.

Spare me that nonsense and spare me the trouble,

Just find me a frost and find it on the double.

A chill in the air and a wind which has frozen,

I find in this stasis that life can be honest.

Without a flux of movement on all ends,

We can find yourself a frame and at it stare.

On winter’s wind comes life and death,

Much the same as brings seen breath.

Careful off in that frost lest you become lost,

A lost child in the snow not in but of winter.

A needless description yet one sorely needed,

Much like pause and like break or maybe respite.

Bury me in snow or bury me in ice,

Don’t notice the burn of the cold and it’s nice.

Though a lie it be, its beauty is not,

Appreciated too sparsely, for what it is not.

Though shown some affection if only on exit,

For a relief or reprieve from a harrowing chapter.

Life’s winters are seasons same as in nature.

Though notice them you won’t until grown or mature.

Through its white and its pale no forgiveness for stopping,

Not a crime in that sense but aversion of intention.

Note it or not in the end it matters little,

Though winter would try even if you stay on course.

A cold on skin that all cools your heart,

To warm once more on winter’s part.

Leaving,

Departure,

Movement in death and in stillness.

One might say that life is the death of death, though not quite the inverse.