The First Snow

November ends with snowfall, little bites of frost falling upon your tongue. You hate and love it at the same time. It reminds you of the little blonde girl whose hair resembles the sheen of platinum more than gold. The snow falls on top of your head and into your eyes, before melting into water that looks like tiny bits of jewel drops adorning your face, similar to how a crown would. They turn the ground white as the hair of an old woman, the sky a flurry of sugar particles, until it feels like you’re crying tears of ice.