December 12, 2007
Psalm of Myself
December 17, 2007

The white hummed in silence, it pummeled the outstretched fingers of the trees. Across the open mile, rung with pine, the dejected sky filtered into a snowy horizon. Nothing dared a vibrant color; if emotion is hid in extreme of hue, nature was silent. She was, at best, rusty sadness. At most, her eyes were black and mouth clamped shut. There was not one thing to be said; it was surely, it was utterly silent.

And in the uncertain air, pairing neither with the macabre sky, nor with the graveyard of the field, a hurried haze confused the quiet. How could the flurries be so busy, and soundless? And all this while, the commanding green of towering pines struggled to command, even a glimpsing eye wandering nomadic in the blizzard. I, too, was lost. And one among thousands, one alone in the center of that hurried plain. Where I did not stop, because she was too absorbed with storms to know whether it was evening or day.

And I could not reflect, lest I should die.

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