Snow Day

Ice cold.
Dreamy whispers.
There’s snow falling down,
And a little falling back up.
A child, crimson-cheeked,
Pushing the limits of his world.
Step back in.
Lock the cold out.
Look around,
Expect something new,
But only half-way.
A child, asleep.
Black hair.
A lot of black hair.
All over his body.
Tongue on the ground.
But it’s no bother.
No worries for those of happier temperaments.
Just a touch of jealousy,
The healthy kind.
Lie down.
Draw of the ceiling with your eyes.
Etch-a-Sketch it away.
What is all this?
Why these short bursts of thought?
Why not a stream?
Questions, questions, questions…
The answer?
Already had it.
Always will.
But it’s slipping away!
Scratch the black headed/bodied child,
Walk to the window.
Crimson-cheeks is back.
Making a fort,
To keep the questions away.
An urge to shake him.
Yell at him!
But it subsides with another sip,
Of warm life liquid.
It’s okay.
The questions will interrupt him,
Force their way through the cracks.
But for now,
He’ll have his eternal second of bliss,
Those short bursts,
The answers that the questions are always looking for,
Always scaring off.
He’ll learn the ropes.
Close the blinds.

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