There is peace in the silence of snow.
Awkward creatures devise ways
to skim the surface gently
without touching one another.
What if life on earth
did not evolve in warmth and water
but in cold and ice
and crystals are our forebears
and death merely a return
to our original, frozen state?
In blue air, two skiers
halt side by side. Their lips move
and make white vapor.
We cannot tell if the message
is cruel or kind.
Passion is frozen until
a thaw releases it.
The skiers resume their swift gliding.
Dressed for the slopes
men and women have similar shapes.
Come hither walks are impossible.
Only pink cheeks and steaming breath
suggest the heat within.
April
Eiler