The Slow-Cooked Sentence

Spring snow.

Snowflakes fall as big as rose petals, tasting of cold. Can cold have a taste? I hold out my tongue to take a second sample of the giant, sloppy flakes that slake thirst and burn skin. I gaze up into gray sky swirling with snow and feel as if I’m falling or flying. How fitting it is to find myself standing in this storm, my balance and perspective temporarily shifted as snow falls in the middle of my children’s mid-winter break. The Slow-Cooked Sentence will return next week.