It is never Winter here. From this place, I can almost feel the scales tip toward my home up north, sullen under the weight of snow.

Crows and gulls call out from somewhere above me. They can seem me dying, so they mock the ground I stand on. Their crooning, dry and riddled with gravel.


It is never Winter here. My understanding of this place is shallow. It is all made of postcards and frond, I know this by how it all sways in the most gentle of breeze.

The people here are disconnected from such rhythm, but they still gather and take the time to admire the distinction between them and the Earth.

Everything around us is alive and anxious to remind us that we are not. 

I am especially vulnerable as this place also reminds me of other precious things I am removed from. Much like the my home in the Winter.

Where I met my wife. We grew together, out of the snow and blossomed under these rays of sunlight.

After a time and much growing, we picked our separate paths along the ceiling and said goodbye.  She is among my most favored of absent things.

Snow falls, somewhere. But there is no Winter here.

As the land beneath my feet rises and the land of my home sinks deeper and deeper still into my memory, I might find when I finally leave this place, that I miss the light and breeze and forgetfulness.