Morning, Snow

Isolation's ache incipient,
a million shades of white murmur and shift
outside where gingerbread cars shush by
and a simple machine grumbles and coughs.
Warm and alone inside this is a day
to drift in and out of sleep, to daydream discretely,
to find succor in solitude (or suffer in silence).

Alone with my imaginings
like friends forgotten but forgiving
the day ticks forth as the quiet accumulates,
drifting in the corners
tickling my cheekbones and nose.
A head shake sends a cloud of soundlessness
cascading to my shoulders, to the floor,
where a draft whisks it around my feet
this desk in furling eddies.

A gust of wind loosens and lifts the hush
in whiskers and whorls of white
until inside and outside merge
and I stand naked and snowblind in an endless field
dressed in alabaster.

If you run, I will follow.