Whiteout   In the blizzard we were zombies, the few of us still moving, still stumbling toward the places we belonged. I figured you   for dead at first, you with your hands so cold, your eyes so blankly frozen. Was it true, what you murmured into my ear? You told   me how you hated the wind, how the hard, dark months forced their fingers into the old hurts, old wounds, how healed doesn’t mean unscarred.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont January 2016