By Nicole Zimmerman
It’s winter, and icicles hang from our noses
and our toes curl deeper into our boots,
searching for shelter.
We cling to our friends
as if we were penguins huddling together,
hoping for our last chance of warmth.
We are snowmen walking through windy streets.
Our scarves blowing into our faces,
frozen hair catching in our mouths.
But as we cling to the sun’s few rays,
and leap from snowbank to snowbank,
We are together.
Grasping hands
and lifting chins,
we rise.
Now, with winter pulling away,
we realize that its cool hand
was only pushing us together.
And as it leaves,
a frostbitten trail spreads
over new blooms.
I lay in the pollen dusted meadow,
flushed tremors will soon be running over my skin.
Now I am warmed by us,
and I no longer need the sun.
Nicole Zimmerman is a Freshman at Barbara Ingram
Post Script Magazine. 