The first appearance.
Chill in the air.
The purity of each little flake.
How it tumbles from the sky
in sublime formation on the ground.
The absent signs of trudging
through each icy sculpture.
Snow sits on top of the distant mountain
like a monument to winter.
A chilly wind navigates its way under my scarf
and brushes my neck with frigid kisses.
Wayward flakes settle on my eyelashes
and melt into icy tears on my cheek.
The crackling flurries under my new boots
pierce the silence.
Glacial air smells jubilant.
© KaZ Cruse Akers