once the snow falls and the white
becomes an endless field, extending
everywhere one can perceive,
i begin to think that all winters
look the same.
looking out of a window at falling
flakes is the same no matter where
i stand, no matter what scenery
greets me on the other side of
the thick glass.
all is covered. slush begins to
form, gray and dirty, tainted and
impure. the roads make new
noises when cars pass, sounding
like soft impacts.
and i always feel the same.
in the winter, i always feel the same.
i will forever be four years old
watching your car drive away
from a driveway lined with snowbanks.
(i will forever be sixteen
with a realization that
everyone drives away at some point.)