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I remember when it snowed
for the first time
since I arrived,
a wide-eyed bride
from the Third World
with a precocious heart
and rose garden mind,
and it was as if
the world was entangled
in a sort of trance,
and the physics of the seasons
was a set of axioms
from which Mother Nature
takes her recipes
for miracles: each day
a different color concocted
from changing proportions.
And I remember thinking
it is never too late
to be lost in wonder,
you are never too old
or too tired
to make room
for a new kind of memory
and to let that memory
blanket everything else with
powdery-fine pieces of the sky
and a brand of truth
that you’ve only seen
in movies or magazines or 500px.
And never mind that it meant
you need eleven articles
of clothing before
you step out of the house,
and it’s murder shoveling
the stuff off the lawn
and the streets instantly
become ten times more dangerous
to drive in; it is one
of the few remaining things
you have to be one with
in order to conquer,
a communion of hungry flesh
and the elements
that transforms the soul
and transfixes culture
no matter what culture
you come from, you bend
around its slopes and
make yourself beautiful
through all the layers
it takes to keep warm.
It’s supposed to be
the darkest, coldest
time of year. It makes
the brightest aspirations
for the future
so much more real.

“Nadya.” by photographer Nessa G.


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