Billowing

The billowing puffs of aged grey smoke swirl up in a haze of monotone delight, and dissipate into the ember light of the evening sun. 

The symbol of you. 

The frigid, unforgiving frost that stole the innocence of life, catching it amid its first breath and snuffing every word of warmth. Transforming love into half-hearted attempts at adoration from the white clouds of winter’s breath. 

The symbol of us. 

The overcast day brought nothing but a judgmental cast to every starry-eyed calf and bluebird in the field. A single ray of translucent golden sun licks across the winter grass. 

The symbol of me after you.