Silver Winter

What am I to know
Of love, or discovery, or any one of those
Emotions for the wiser, the older
I am merely halfway to the age of grown

Bundled by my parents and whisked along
Where houses with a white coat stand, slanted, side by side
While there is an air of calmness, it borders on the sad
Yet never quite reaches it, for in and throughout that, a pleasantness

The third evening, not entirely by myself
Then, in fact, I am, for seconds tend to slip me by
Stumbling behind, not yet groaning
But like a cub, fallen back, and clumsily, attempting the forward climb

This is When
Frosted white, encircling my ignorant eyes
Another trip, boot caught in ice
And, When, brown eyes flying up, I finally glance who stood before me all the while

That kind of knowing, a pause in the ticks
When in fact, you don't
And thinking harder, frozen in that stance, one foot ahead
I realize I don't, for that matter, know at all; yet still you are, and the clock goes

And how perfect, the crooked line between two lips
My mind encompasses so fast, and forgets to make you guess
And soon you call my name, like an old friend, who knew me all the while
Soon enough, you do

Of course, I never share
Sip my tea and swallow the emotions around the grown, for I am only halfway to the age where the mind matures
And fitting to that age, my eyes wander to the windows
In search of answers to questions halfway posed

So, it comes, as evenings come and go
Denial had come too, and flown
Whisked away and gently replaced with the hottest insistence
That when I see you again, it is only a matter to be expected

Perhaps, you've always known

Cradled, such a story of my own
There that crooked line stretches, mirrored
My cheeks are red, and this is mirrored
I reach out my palm, and do you mirror? Ah, but you've reached first

There is a post, with the strangest, most fitting, sparing light
If I listen, I only hear the crunch of stepping
And if not, a world of white, with a full symphony
Halfway to grown, this is the pinpoint where I cross the jagged line, past the odd angle at which our shadows are thrown

Freezing wind carves smiles in the air before us
Where the light doesn't quite reach, your steely finger brushes mine
In the quaintest winter, my heart thaws
Thank you, sweetest silver boy of time