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Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry
until
*
one flake
**
and then another
***
and still more fall
and group and mass,
filling the air, falling
down
****
down,
gracing the ground
with an illusion of purity,
punctuating branches
with complex simplicity.
ii.
In fallen snow life imitates art.
White lines cross narrow surfaces,
delicate as pen-and-ink illustrations
that flow like a coda on the flight of birds,
wider swaths curve to streetlamps,
strangely iridescent and compelling,
playing light impressions over landscape,
and late at night when the city’s
blanketed expanse seems unending
in contrasts, Steigliz’s ghost
haunts avenues, camera in hand,
stalking relentless ice.
iii.
Cities in snow are beautiful,
sifted drifts rest on wrought iron spikes,
crystal stilettos are deadly,
hang half-hid by gables.
Bemused gargoyles perch on stone,
sporting milk mustaches
They should be ashamed
of themselves!
All the motion of architecture
is rearranged. The silence
in a map of footsteps
speaks louder than the clang
of skyscrapers.
iv.
Early morning is best
for snow walking. The dawn
of solitude is broken,
crunched by boots,
the crash of icicles falling,
the steady hiss of my breath
puffing pockets in a wool scarf.
Later I’ll be a face in a window,
swaddled in hot chocolate
and Segovia.
"and late at night when the city?s
blanketed expanse seems unending
in contrasts, Steigliz?s ghost
haunts avenues, camera in hand,
stalking relentless ice"
look what you have written Angeline!
every verse feels like its own poem. this was my favorite of them.
Three times I saw the vision of milk stains, stiletto heels and gargoyles. Three times I felt that stark grace.
But the first verse, when one flake dares to fall, followed by another, and another... it was there that structure seemed threatened and out-of-place, and, I have to ask: why?
and see if you still feel this way! I'm jealous, because you will have the kind of snow I miss! This is a really nice piece, Ange! Thanks!
perhaps, the only person who could make me want winter.
Stop it.
: )
Perfect, this is how I felt as a child outside in the snow.
That stillness, that silence where you are the only person in a magical world.
Thank you
what one is at the end of
Come wind, blow it all back
I'll shovel it agin
And brave this slippery shit
to go stand in line for milk and bread
with the rest of the panic stricken fools
Subject matter does not amuse me...
This does...
"Bemused gargoyles perch on stone,
sporting milk mustaches
They should be ashamed
of themselves!"
I am glad to see a bit of humour creeping in.
And otherwise quite well written.