The snow is relentlessly falling; the drifts take on shapes of bears in the the night.
November it still is and December’s breath blows strongly causing me fright.
The verisimilitude of the landscape is a duplicity of forms…I can not tell what is real or a shadow of the storm.
Sounds muffled in the powder, never far away call endlessly; still I keep them at bay.
Sometimes, wondering, are you calling me? The snow was ours, our element, the place that we were free.
Remember, the peaks we would journey…the beauty of the vastness…the way you held me “yearningly”?
Waiting, always I will; riding the lifts alone now, yet you’re there, I sense you, I do.
Others stress I must move forward but these others aren’t you; no one understands me so I bid them all ado.
Sublimation is my course; I will give in and adjust. Still, everyone please note, I will ever be a Force.
theaflys 