Plink

I am Icarus, standing on the scaffolds of heaven

The dysphoria of a switch of the season sounds wet yet solid, sparkling in a glassy twinkle as a glacial spread of silvery white tumbles past my ears:

Plink,

The drop of ancient river that folds into a noiseless frozen thread

Hits my aching hearing as a plink against the solid stream

Colder and colder until the squeak is palpable, shuddering and whispering its descent as I am,

Falling, falling

I plink as the first snowfall sinks

The sun above me, dewy, cold, wet, a silvery pink

As I plink

It becomes so very cold

The cry becomes so loud

I am Icarus, fresh fallen snow

Muffled into the subset of winter’s youth

The plink of the flakes feel stern, sound like a long-lost mother

The warning came much too late.

-

A great song to accompany my poem.