Green yesterday,
white today;
Odd hunger within;
The expanse of white,
echoing the blindness of hunger.
Hot on the tongue,
Cold in the throat;
Frost spread,
down to the last vein in the lung.
Magical Snow,
Solid to eat,
Nothing more than plain water
for the body.
It sits,
majestically claiming all that's solid,
Thwarted by only that,
which remembers internal heat,
in its hypnotic spell.
It used to melt on her.
But now it builds up,
a blanket.
Eating it made the difference.
Odd Hunger, now distant,
Calm blanket,
Warmth of cold,
And soon;
she's but a snowman.
Picture Courtesy: Picture found by the happenstance that oft accompanies a deliberate search: from a Russian article with an endearing story on how innocent, yet harsh kids had built a snowman around a live dog. They rescued it in the end, but there; lost in translation, was a resonant peek at cold, both within and without.