There were words written in snow
when I was ten,
Holding tightly with painfully cold hands to
My twisted, dark tree branch pen
Filling the white with these words,
These fluid symbols that are ever shifting,
Serving the same purpose as they did that day.
My eyes slid so easily across that page,
In wonder at the sounds I could create.
Just by these letters forming upon
the blank and barren thought,
scrawled across winter
thought, form, or rhythm