Snow

Fast-fallen, it shocks us when we wake, blinding, alight, a white scream; pure and primal, it has stopped time. All sound has ceased, all vision is held captive by this pristine page; something cries out to be written. Who dares to plant so much as a foot to violate this immaculate perfection? And you, your flesh is flawless; a mere fingertip caress might affront its innocence. Yet it invites me to touch, to disturb. Once it is done, there is no going back.