Drycicles

Here is a story about

My first memory in snow, the tiniest of angels;

And a print of my boot

Then the heavens cried ice, because God always could,

And I wouldn’t.

So one ran and that’s it, they agreed,

Minuscule memories buried as if it’s never been,

Never did.

Temporarily lost in small mountains of rust

Scintillating with age,

Freshly adorned with a coat of white powder,

Was it small molecules of ice, was it snow,

Was it dust?

Screaming in agony, shrieking memories,

Shouting louder

This is what I recall of the past; I once made memory in snow

As a small angel; and a print with my boot,

Never cried, never would,

Never could