Fog on the mountain
and the snow is ankle-deep;
I ascend into whiteness.
If winter has a color,
it is silver, no doubt.
Silver.
Kings desire it,
demons fear it,
thieves wield it
in the dark of night.
Nature lays it down indiscriminate,
in snowflakes,
and the sharpness of icicles,
to confound the sense of beast
and runner.
I ascend, and breathe it in,
nature's silver;
cold and metallic
it sinks deep into my core.
Time is lost
in the mercuric pool
of silver in my veins.
It dissipates, between steps,
like snowbirds scattering
before a predator,
until my foot
inexorable
completes its journey to earth
landing in the snow
with a muffled thud
and a cloud of powder.
Time resumes
and I exhale,
crystalline,
my breath all gleam and frost,
leaving only the metal
folded into my soul.
