A flurry of words blows about in a random fashion in my cluttered mind, menacing but never really sticking. Sliding off my slippery soul and disappearing, evaporating into the atmosphere. Words like snowflakes, each one incredibly unique yet quite similar to every other one. Ephémère, meaningless really.

At times the words blow down on me from the left, caressing my cold heart like a peacock feather on goose bump skin in the late afternoon, or the soft whisper of a lover exhaled in a moment of passionate enthrallment.

At other times the words come pouring down on me from the right, thus sparing my fragile heart further inconvenience. It has a lighter beat then, like a languorous air of  Bossa Nova. Despite the snow, I feel a bit like the Girl From Ipanema and I glide gracefully in the frosty white landscape.

Usually the words just pound straight down onto my tangled mind, chilling my thoughts, confiscating my cheerfulness, seizing my lightness in a frozen grip.

I dream of a time when the words will be the vehicle of my own peace of mind. I am forever longing for spring.