text: Somewhere between the space of visible and invisible, deep inside the outskirts of sight, I find my own dream of life. Every season, and specifically winter, I find such joy in peeking into the private conversations of snowflakes as they softly rest on the ground. At the beginning of winter, on the first dusting of snow frost, I am freed from my hidden seed. Brushing off the soft stuffing from my eyes, I stretch out my arms and spin. The frost on the trees is so beautiful. A thin casing of crystal. From a distance, they look like bunches of ivory flowers. As the winter grows colder, and deeper snow piles onto the hard earth, I start my duties. I don’t know who gave me this task every winter. I just know that I have to do it. Under the snow, I dig my fingers down into the soil. Tiny, little holes do my digits make. These are for the little bugs and creatures to hide out the freezing wind. Even though I am so comfortable in the bitter, shuttering gales, I know that some are not so lucky. Shimmering amongst the frost and ice. Maybe on a very cold and early morning, if the sun hits me just right, an animal might see the very outline of my body. Even if I look down, I do not know what my body looks like. I can see rabbits and foxes. Mice, deer, coyotes and so many lively creatures. I can only imagine I have paws like them. Ears and coats of fur like them. But I have no use for them, as I can not be prayed upon. It is becoming a little warmer now, soon it will be spring. The snow I used to skate across is melting. It leaves thousands of broken islands where the damp, yellow grass is waiting in between. Sometimes I envy the grass during this time. To be able to wait peacefully and gently, under the comforting snow. To grow strong and green, to give nutrients to a living being. To be the reason that something procreates and lives. To be the reason living beings are eaten as well. The cycle I watch from a safe distance is cruel, but very breathtakingly merciful. The snow is now very far from its sibling islands. I must jump across the great gaps of eager grasses for only the snow I shall touch. I will finish my last tasks and then I will sleep deep under the blanket of warming soil. I can’t wait to hear the juices of mother earth flowing up to the surface as the life waters rush and pulse past my dormant ears. The spaces of snow are now impassable. I am stuck on a small circlet of leftover slush. I am happy with my work, and I am satisfied with the season. Now to lay my- What is that? Just before I close my eyes, I see a lump on the ground. A small lump of fur. I bend down to inspect, oh dear. It seems that one of the small creatures did not make it through the winter. A deep pit wells up inside my core. I pick up the creature, stiff from its long sleep under the blanket of frost. I hold the creature close. Oh no. Am I so selfish to enjoy myself when there are beings that can not so much as survive in my passion? I am beginning to question the pleasures I’ve taken in my position. What am I? Where am I between the line of living and not living? Such a concept had never crossed my mind. I place the creature down and dig my fingers deep into the earth below it. Come full spring, should the insects find you. Please find comfort in the fact that your death is not a waste, little creature. They need to find you. They need you. Something, other than me, needs to find your sweet body and love you. I love you, of course. But isn’t that how I was made? Or, if I was made even.