New Prose Poetry by Heather Sager

Snowflakes Falling

 With the look of winter, you emerge from the front door of a house. You are young, and your eyes sparkle with curiosity. I say you look of winter because of your black top hat, your black coat, and because your eyes tilt to the gray and white sky. You whistle as you walk onto the sidewalk along the curb. Other people hibernate in their homes. You are all alone. White snow blankets the ground everywhere, and patches of snow drift across the path you head onto, marching quickly. Bare, small trees hunker under pale fluff. The metal park-bench near the weeping willow glowers metallic black. Out in the evergreen-scented air, winter snow flakes fall as delicately patterned as spiral lace onto your shoulders, and also wetly blur your vision. You pull the neck of your coat up to warm yourself. Now you feel as cozy as the folks you imagine lounging indoors. Next the images of the movie you plan to make glimmer in your mind. You intend to make something magical, with a special effect or three—a film that will cause viewers to stop in their life’s tracks and say, “Oh My.” You want to craft a movie about rare humans who live on the moon. Who live in style. The snow reminds you of a painter’s canvas. The images of your film-dream are set in motion.

 You are out walking in winter, the snowflakes gently falling. 

- © Heather Sager 2022

Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her writing has recently appeared in Remington Review, Bluepepper, Poets' Espresso Review, Poetry Pacific, Flights, The Fabulist, Otoliths, Magma, and more journals and anthologies.