Snowflakes tatter the paper

in a pitter-patter,

drifting down

between twisted green junipers

where I hold

a small leather journal


and try to write

with a naked hand.


Flakes sink into the page,

each with the faintest sound,

disappearing where they melt

like little ships beneath the waves.


Fingers turn numb

while my heart beats with feeling.


The falling ice crystals blotch my ink,


and stamp

the texture


of this silent,

soft afternoon


better than any word.


Though I would not remember

these krinkles

without the words—


each an epitaph



to a moment of awareness



when I felt the touch of life on my cheeks

like white confetti

raining down from castle walls

as a Knight returned home



AuthorDerek Franz