By Martin Falatic
I watched the sun drift low across the Southern Sky,
Only rising slightly above the distant mountains.
A languid arc she made, as she crept along,
Tracing the path of Winter's Edge.
Crisp, dead leaves that had trapped the closing days of Autumn
Were reanimated by the cold winds.
A vortex of brown, a dust-devil formed from the forest's debris,
Made its way across my path,
As the clouds raced to meet the sun before twilight became night.
The sky began to darken, the wind chilling me to the bone,
But still I walked, watching the vibrant sunset,
The gathering storm.
At first I did not see it,
So tiny were the crystals stinging my face.
But soon the snow was falling in earnest.
I stopped, lost in wonder, and a certain melancholy,
I savored the moment, like a fine wine,
Drinking it in, feeling its warmth and its sting.
I shared the view with no one -- the source of my sadness,
For I had yet to find one whose sees as I do.
Perhaps, I mused, someone else is watching the snow fall,
Feeling the same hope, awe, and fear,
Our souls embracing the same vision,
Unbeknownst to each other.
As darkness fell, I made my way back to the campsite,
Eager to write of the moment,
To share the experience with other kindred spirits.