first snows

the trees outside my window gnarled like the bones of someone old, (though much less old than they are, these trees with snow nestled in their joints) someone whose skin rests loosely over the taut blue veins on the back of their hands. the veins on my hands are hidden by faded summer-tan skin but the bones of my fingers are rigid to the touch. there are freckles between my fingers, gold and hidden like treasures. I am just barely human when the cold sets in and every moment I think I might turn in to a bear, go down to the tree outside my window and live under its roots until the sun comes back and the ground is wet with the melted sadness of the winter. my fur, thick and dark and smelling like the naturalness of my body, will keep me warm. the snow that gathers in the trees and in the crevices of its roots is the brightest thing on earth, and in it I can see that sometime, when the trees and their few clinging leaves have almost touched the soft grayness of the sky, other things will be that bright.