What do we know of winter?

Can we ever remember something we don’t really know?

What do we know of winter? Of that grief cloaked in white. We go back to that silent song which cracked the frozen into a shivering state. As we slowly surrender to the harsh howl, it surely tears asunder our organs and bones. We return to that brittle, tiny moment when every foundation fell apart. On the deserted broken, we pick up the remains for recovery. We go back to that silent song. We prick our dry skin with thorns and pale our small eyes with withered fragrances that don’t even last for minutes. What do we know of such season? Nothing, yet everything. We helplessly feed on the agony during the maddening months that stretch like eternal hell. We crawl under its seemingly shy but fatal snow, and from below, it feels like an unknown extension of our multifaceted selves.

What do we remember of that grief cloaked in white as we sit amidst the blooming fields?

What do we know of spring?