cold- crisp,
something called snow.
that is all,
that she knows.
often rough,
though sometimes smoothe,
thick and thin,
this is a tree in her eyes.
fallen leaves crunch,
when dead,
and remain flexable and fresh,
when alive.
her world has no colors,
to look without seeing.
only sounds, sences,
only touches, feels.
the smell of the rose,
the soft pettals in her grasp,
she can remember,
the red of it...
but no longer.
those are all memories.
winter is now,
if only she couls still see,
all of the season's beauty.
