Winter touches me. I feel her snow between my fingers. The air of winter is always listening. Its shiny crystals carry our words like some heraldic message. Even the sun can hear the sermon reflected in its light. Lungs paint stories like chimney smoke from the heart. All is written in the winter with a giant charcoal pencil. White, so thick with color, like a cardinal in the snow. Icicles drip from rooftops, their pipes a grand cathedral. The forest floor remembers, each footstep is not forgotten. Winter knows every moment, every breath, every color, every drop. When she tilts, it all matters!
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