There’s something in the icy whisper of winter
that tickles my memory
into thinking of days long chilled,
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
in the heat and light of warm and happy life,
in the icy whispers of winter.