Whiteness
The evening snow was falling with a keening whiteness, a softness, a
relentless multi-tongued whispering, a basically useless image that
even so is far too good for describing the situation as I realize at
once, why am I wasting my time like this.
The metaphor is too good as well; the hiss from a leaking pipe under a
kitchen sink in an abandoned house in the dark while one is laying
hash-stoned on the floor wearing an iPod comes immediately to mind as more suitable;
only, the present leak is under the sink of a freezing winter sky, the
leak congealing into allegedly splendrous crystals just barely distinguishable to the
radically corrected eye, and of course it is happening out in the
wooded open, what the hell, where else, there's nothing to hide around
here except what's in her eyes, her snow-colored eyes.
Eyes that from out of snow’s purity gaze at me, or at least more or
less toward where I am, I can’t tell exactly because of the snow on my
glasses, and on hers too no doubt. In fact it's pretty much dead
reckoning for both of us, though her eyes behind the snow buildup are
also very likely brimming with accusations that are right at home in
the heart of winter.
