The Underside Of Eyelids Poem by Rebekah Gamble

The snow drifts down,
blue, white,
glassy on the tree branches-
The snow makes rhythm
as it touches the earth.
The ice makes music
when a fair wind comes.
It is like Bartok, Dvorák, Tchaikovsky-
an icy Winter's tale.
It has been a long time
since it was quiet enough
to hear the snow land
with that gentle patter.
I close my eyes.
The winter is often likened
to sadness and sorrow, pain.
It is silence for me.
It is silent like me.
It communicates in silence,
by silence, with silence-
like me.
If it were unbearable sorrow,
I would learn
that I could conquer perfect winter,
quell it-
for within me
there is an eternal summer.
I lay down in the snow,
which feels warm to me-
open my eyes
to roses and blue jays.
Eternal Summer.
A passerby would see
a girl laying in the snow
with her eyes closed and arms spread,
but my eyes are open
and within me
there is an eternal summer.