End of March

.
.

I dreamed of a reindeer girl.
In a frozen world, glittering glittering, with ice and snow.
The wind spoke of legends and wild hunts.
It blows, it blows across icebergs.
We can all go to school, and learn our letters and numbers. We can discuss, dissect, study and debate. This wind will always know more.
There are secrets in the ice, it whispers and groans.
The strain that pulls at the seams, cannot tear the fabric. It is only a patchwork, a quilt.
(if you look at it carefully, piece by piece, like a puzzle, you will see a pattern, a story.
Not all stories are meant to be told, but all are meant to be heard).
They know, they know, about the schools and the books and the blackboards.
They know about letters and numbers, and maybe about crushes and first kisses.
But no school can teach about the language of the ice, the colors it takes (it shines, it shines) the songs swept away on the wind, buried inside snowflakes. The kisses of the cold as it engulfs your belly. The love there is in the starkness of the land.
The world that lives and breathes and cracks and dies.

So wrap yourself in furs, little reindeer girl.
It sings for you, the ice, the wind and the snow. It sings and screams your name.
Dreams are doors and door thresholds are meant to be crossed.
Dream of me, dream of the land that creaks and moans. Of icy expanses.
Swallow the world. Swallow it in big, large gulps.
Swallow it before it swallows you.
And then sing.

(image credit)