Winter Whispers

There’s something in the icy whisper of winter

that tickles my memory

into thinking of days long chilled,

moments left

to freeze in time-

behind the heated rush to brush

into and past the promises of tomorrow

be they filled with happiness or sorrow.

Indeed, my memory has no right to reflect upon the frozen memories I borrow-

for they are not memories, but stories passed down by ghosts,

history whispering that we are but temporary hosts

that thrive

in the heat and light of warm and happy life,

but survive

in the icy whispers of winter.