Stillborn Phoenix

The snow blanketed the rolling hills and naked trees in a glorious white, and as it fell soundlessly it smothered the echo of every noise that ventured forth into the Arctic air invading from the north. The snow papered over every imperfection and squelched every angry outburst. The landscape presented the illusion of a newly-created, fresh world of endless possibility. For just a moment, his mind cleared and the weight of all that he carried with him seemed to lift. He smiled slightly.

But the snow eventually stopped, as it always does. The plows scraped through the area, leaving black ribbons in their wake, dirty gray banks on either side. Before long the unspoiled white sheet that draped the earth was marred by footprints, puddles where the snow had quickly melted, and the autumn’s refuse of fallen branches and leaves that had fought their way back to the surface.

The promise of a new world and a fresh start faded quickly, leaving behind the harshly frigid realization that the world tomorrow would remain as it had always been, that even a powerful winter Nor’easter could never wash away the ugliness that seemed impossible to purge.