When. . .

When winter snow falls, I cry a bit inside.
When night strews stars across its darkness like seed upon loamy soil,
When it was simple, and I laughed without regret,
When the priest came to this city of cowards and predators, he knew not which described him, but knew he had found his home,
When he kisses me hello and my heart beats happily,
When February snow etches the oak branches, hard-edged against the pewter sky,
When the neighbor’s dog is in your yard again,
When the lunch bell rings in a high school, its shrill E-sharp piercing the air,
When my hand writes for a time, such as now, with reprieve, and it begins to cramp,
When I realized I had forgotten just what color my socks are today
When thunder used to scare me,
When life was innocent,
When I stared at the wonder of graphite, enjoying the soft whoosh it made on the crisp paper and rugged depth it created with each new letter, word, sentence, story,
When I was writing, my hand started cramping up.
When watching the snow fall, it’s important to have the fireplace going, a mug of hot cocoa in hand, or one might lose their soul to the coldness in the beauty of it all.
When the sun is sitting on the roof it all, I sometimes go out and talk with him about my day so far, and when he falls behind it, I go in and cook dinner.
When time ticks by, my mind slowly begins to pry.
When I saw all of the snow outside, I was hoping classes would be canceled,
When I sucked in the cold air malice seeped through naked spaces of the trees.

Then the world collapsed and took me with it in joy.

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