Upon A Cold Winter's Eve

A frozen hand, blue-tinted fingertips poking through white snow. Blue, black, white, blue, black, white, as if those were the only colors I had ever known, the only dyes with which to paint this wintry landscape. I drew closer and the wind stripped away a layer, to be replaced by more.

Numbly, I thrust my own hands into that white powder, yet I found no purchase there. The wind blew again, taunting me with its forlorn howl, my body shuddering in response although I felt no chill. Yet still, I had to know. Who was this stranger in the ice? The one who pleaded, with their last act, the one who, perhaps, had almost clawed his way out with shredded fingernails before succumbing to the inevitable? I tried again to wipe the snow away, to clear a path to the ice below and see what frozen face stared back at me, but my body refused the action, so cold was I that day.

Then the heavens took mercy upon me and a strong gust blew, blew all the way down to the icy surface, and underneath, it gazed back at me, its eyes wide with fear, its mouth open in a last gasp that yielded no air, but only water, filling its lungs and stopping its screams, even as it released my own. That face, you see . . . that still and solid face, frozen in eternal horror, was neither more nor less than a reflection of my own.

Author's Note: This poem was written as part of a 250-word microfiction challenge. I hope you enjoyed the read. I'd love to hear what you think, so please feel free to leave a comment, click the heart, and subscribe!

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