My Life In Word

It’s thirty-five degrees in this small North Florida town,
the kind of cold that feels borrowed,
like it won’t stay long enough to learn my name.
Then they arrive—
not snowflakes exactly.
Reminding me of dust bunnies 
as they drifting loose from the sky,
soft, unsure, floating past my face
before vanishing into nothing.
I call them snow bunnies,
because they hop more than they fall,
because they feel playful, temporary,
because this place isn’t supposed to have them.
They brush my cheeks with silence,
melt on contact,
leave only the idea of cold on my skin.
The sun stays out, unapologetic,
as if winter is just visiting,
as if this is all a rumor.
The flurries pass as quickly as they came,
and suddenly the air feels empty again.
Tonight the temperature will drop into the low twenties,
and I wait—
like a child listening for reindeer on the roof,
heart tilted toward possibility,
wondering what the dark might bring
to this unlikely, southern sky.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Val Vesa on Unsplash

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