Snowflakes, for real real

This is probably not a sentiment I shall continue to express through the next – what – four? five? months - six? For the moment, in this subjective reality that will have already changed by the start of the next sentence, I enjoy the snow.

I enjoy how silent it forces the world to become.

Suddenly all I can hear are my footsteps and my own breath.

Perhaps that’s God breathing, too, in the background.

[One and the same?]

The snow hangs on otherwise barren branches, it strokes poor Pushkin’s cheek, it settles as a shawl around Krupskaya’s shoulders. I enjoy it.

And I like enjoying things.



*N.B. – Pushkin was an early-19th century poet; Krupskaya was a feminist revolutionaire and Lenin’s loff. Eluding that they are statues to which I’m referring is a poetic device. :D