He stands there,

His legs light and his arms heavy.

Closing his eyes as

The wind combs his hair and

Brush against his face.

He felt his hair fall strand by strand and

His body agonizingly melt liquid smooth.

Two steps

The winter flowers — roses, snowdrops, cyclamen covered in snow.

He held a silver filigree pendant necklace with Jets, the only thing shining, up to the moon.

His only thought, “What have I become now?”

Is winter the only season one feels nothing and everything?