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White
falling from the sky at dawn, it is white.
Snow White -
present from the heavens to his chosen people
towards year’s end. Hallelujah! This
holly flower will blossom and embrace
the barren earth, the singed sinned soil of
human toil. How much does it take to
rebirth the world? Not much.
Just flakes of bone-chilling jaw-shivering
crispy
whiteness,
lighter than felt.
Overnight, it bleaches the sidewalks colorless
and forms heavy clumps
latching, choking, crushing
moss (microbiomic greengrass.)
Cruel like elve-witches. Ymirs
slink under pillows into dreams. What parables!
you stare
as I dance in the dawn
ice in my tongue.
But
I envy you people, to whom
White
is a reality, as fixed as the deep blue wells of your soul-windows
and the latent crimson spots that surface
when you are too uncomfortably fazed
by UV rays.
But if I linger long enough, tell me, O my
darling
if White
will become my reality, too.
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This piece was written as part of a series I named "first colors", inspired by events that transpired during my first three months at a boarding school half the globe away from home.