There is frost on my window.
Just the one half of it.
Why only half?
How does it form its shapes?
Those thin, jagged lines,
trailing down the glass,
like stitches, cut across with their spiky sides.
Do they know I smiled at them?
Do they know why?
Do I even know why?
What was it that pushed
those breaths of quiet laughter out of my chest?
Was it how cold to the touch it was?
How lazy the ice looks on the trees?
Or was it the quiet stillness of it all?
Or maybe a dash of divine?
Just a single pane of glass between myself and God’s brush strokes.
But why choose only one half of the window for a canvas?
Maybe that’s the art in itself?
Thank you, frost on my window,
for being my muse on this cold, winter night.