The wind blows haphazardly against my face.
Whacking it with ice shards and stinging snow,
and whipping my hair back treacherously.
I am 5 and had ran from my home,
feeling spurned from my family in the midst of a snow storm.
The wind howls,
and the only color nature can unveil is white.
Yet I trudge through,
the snow acting as ankle weights,
but not holding me down.
I can no longer feel my legs.
My hands are white,
laced with a purple tinge commencing at my fingertips
due to my lack of planning and layers.
But I feel calm.
I sit.
The snow instantly immerses into my jeans,
and my eyes chase the sporadically revealed specks of green from the woods around me,
that I can only partially discern through the crystal snow nudging and grazing loosely against my face.
The light lacy petals accumulate upon my sneakers,
and I look up,
my eyes scouring for a sign of life concealed within the trees.
I stand,
and the wind surges forward again,
sustaining its icy downfall of snow upon me.
Loosely tugging at my balance as it skims heavily over my head.
I close my eyes.
I am not cold.