Photo by Damian McCoig on Unsplash

Poetry

A Poem

I rub the piece of snow with
My strong thumb and weak index,
Discriminately, like
It was a grain of sand,
Until I realized my fingers glow
With blood, wanting to come out and
Play, mistaken themselves as sunburned.
Patches of dry skin, rosy pastel of cheeks.
A snowflake grid, footprints of snow
Everywhere—the terrain is Robert Frost,
Instead…

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