Winter

Watching the meadows fade away and hesitantly listening to the noises that do so as well. My mother washes her plastic dishes with a growing frown on her face and her hands grow slower, retrieving dirt from their little crevices. The walls of the kitchen look grossly yellow, once white until paint met with dry surface. I never liked chalk when it stayed on my finger from where the nails hit. Small particles of white drift slowly from the cold absence of rain and faces express their drowning as geese steadily crawl through the atmosphere, honking warnings to those who have not impaired their ability to analyze vibrations. Silence lay between branches and the bare roots have their new layer of bedding. I wake up when the darkness had not yet disappeared, lingering on me throughout the day. My alarm clock is my enemy and so it finds its place under my harsh hand. For-telling the future may be difficult, but I believe I may have done so. The gray and the white really aren't that different after all and mice and cats don't contrast much either. Longing for the purity may be good, but I believe color will be to my favor in the next few hours. If I'm not alone, maybe they'll come earlier.