When The Warmth Forgot Me

The snow struck my face—
violent, playful—
as though it hadn’t meant
to sting the way it did.
I longed for my blanket,
for cocoa and marshmallows by the fire,
comfort far beyond reach.

I bent my head
and, for a moment, wondered
what it would be like to give in—
to let winter take what it wanted.
But my feet refused to falter.
I would not run back to warmth.

My teeth chattered,
my body shivered,
arms wrapped tight
around the little heat I held.
Still, I moved forward.
Still, I would.

Snowflakes whirled around me,
mischievous companions
daring me to chase them.
But I kept my pace—
steady, stubborn.

Then the world quieted.
Frosted flowers, bare trees—
shapes softened under white—
and in that stillness
I felt something shift.
Winter was not an ending,
but a slow unmaking,
a place where life loosened its grip
so it could take hold again,
brighter, fuller,
when the season turned.