There is a field of flowers. All the flowers here are dead and dried and beautiful. As you walk through, and they rattle in the winter wind, there is a moment unnoticed. Slight, subtle, profound. Seeds embark upon the journey of your dress.

There is a cold in your eyes. And the sun carves and embosses the purple of your skin with warmthless rays cast from afar.

The snow has yet to veil.

Somewhere within, trickles a stream of melancholy, and you think of it fondly. The drops hurt of a sweet known hurt, and the drops drip slow. Yet lo their progress against the soul.

Your hands are numb now and thumbly and undexterous, and your teeth ready to shatter. And you advance still against the shivers of the impending night, quietly hoping for spring. And you advance still against the shivers of the impending night.