Chionomancy

It's too cold to be an oracle.

My affection for winter starts to wobble around February, when the snow melts from dream to nightmare. At first, the snow is not snow. It is a cloud that wants to be a poem, which has insinuated itself between God’s palms until it might be pressed into hallowed parchment. The snow is not snow. It is a sugar beloved by seraphs, accidentally loosened from the skies to sweeten the world. The snow is not snow. It is a pile of shit-streaked crumpled up first drafts sent up by some chthonic deity who fancied himself a beatnik poet and now everything is grotesque to behold and chilling to endure.