The cold rips holes in my clothes but leaves my fingers and toes whole. Tattered
like sails I fly, complete like nowhere else can be/understand I go. Don’t stop me not
now no edge or ice can beat me, I promise. You are thin lines groomed. I am not, I
am too busy, I am being wind.
I am not a treetop. I am not a treetop. I am above. I believe and am believed in, which
is to say have faith and be trusted, which is to say serve and rule. I am overtop,
mountaintop, lodgeside lookdown queen of the world. Cold air is the ultimate rush.
Please take away your signs and your metal and your nature, but you can leave –
down there – the tiny of the village, the farness of the mountains, the blueness of the
This is control: the slip of a tip around a tree and through snow so deep you can’t
but hold still. The turn on a dime. The duck at the last second. The slide, the bend,
the subtle motion. The obvious. This is not: the decision to go and let your body stop
you. The unexpected rock. The jump unseen, the lack of depth perception, the flat
light, the flat, awkward thrusts. The falls.
Images beautiful of auld are overlayed by the world’s wintercrispness. Even the
beauty of fresh blackprinted text on a parchment coloured fresh new page is
dimmed by snow: no page is perfect white, it is dirty next to snow, it is trash, litter,
forgotten, a relic of the indoors and the warm and the fire and the fire is not here or
now. Compared to the coldbared treebranches against the flat purplegray endless
sky words’ elegance is overcomplicated, soft, fragile. This tells you nothing stands
against winter, even me.
-Elizah Stein, January 2013