Chapter Text
tumultuous snow storms boom,
for there is no softness in the hail.
vicious. stabbing.
the father shields his baby’s eyes as they huddle by dying coals —
past the hurling thuds of unforgiving ice and the howling wind,
he can hear the towns cries,
agony. panic.
he scoops his baby into his arms.
“write,” he whispers, in the hum of a prayer.
“write,” he pleas.
the baby listens closer,
the town’s cries all sounding the same.
“write,” the librarian sobs,
“write,” the butcher scolds,
“write,” the nurse shrieks.
the pen feels icy in my hand,
it hurts to hold with the way it stings.
the notebook hastily flips with the movement of the wind.
still, i push through, hearing the cries.
as the words manifest on the page, the storm begins to ease.
the words might not be perfect, but they’re there.
and, there, upon the page, is where they will rest to quell the storm.
the streetlights are now visible as the town hums holiday tunes.
they help their neighbors recover and fix what they lost.
the father is watching his baby outside,
smiling as she makes her first snow angel.
the baker, next door, is laughing with the farmer.
the town is recovering,
for there is softness in the snow.