What Happens in Winter

by Isabelle Wedin

By the first snowfall, I'm paler than ever,
wrapped up, too, in my fluffy coat,
just like the trees.
I try to start up a conversation, but
they just tell me to shed my leaves already
so we can all get back to sleep.
The snow freezes; I freeze, my muscles useless.
The snow cracks; my hands crack like bark.
I go outside and rub lotion on the snow;
it helps for a bit but then comes back worse.
The next morning, all the streets and sidewalks,
even the parts covered in lotion,
are ice, every square inch.
I chip at it for a while, but underneath
there's always more ice.
I stay out there chipping until nightfall,
chipping away at myself,
but never get down to the pavement.
I resolve to stay inside until it warms up again.
When it does, the snow turns to slush
and floods the streets;
it fills my shoes until it displaces my feet,
and suddenly I'm slush up through my knees
and then my thighs and then I'm the puddle
you mistake for asphalt.