So quiet. The world has stopped turning.
Clomping in my father's boots, I'm the first to leave evidence of human presence in the snow.
I don't notice the beauty around me.
Wrapped in a yellow blanket, the cold is the only thing I'm aware of.
Suddenly, I hear wind chimes.
Their fairy voices gently wake me.
I stop.
I breathe.
I look.
Snow drifts down and softly settles in my hair.
The world is a lovely place.
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Silhouettes of a secret. A story told over a cuppa. Or perhaps just sitting on that stone bench, basking in the moonlight... and not saying anything at all.
("I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks." -Shakespeare, Twelfth Night)