I skid on ice
on the way home
from the end of
an era.

All the sudden
I lost control
and spun
around,
the world twirling
like a child pulling
the streamers of
the Maypole.

The brakes failed,
my steering locked.

Flashing before my eyes.
Images of a life not quite
my own.

Heliotrope in the
moonlit night, in a
quiet town
in New Hampshire.

I jolt back to reality as
my wheel clicks back
into place.
The skid marks in the snow
are the only reminder
(but they will be gone in
the morning).

Faintly,
I can still smell
the heliotrope,
fresh and sweet
gracing my senses.

My breath freezes in the
brisk night air.
The windows are down
and the snow picks up
(washing away the proof
of my troubles).

The world becomes
whitewashed in a matter of minutes.
It rids the night
from my head,
making it impossible to remember
the accident.

The ice will melt
and my memory will thaw
one day.