She felt as a child once again, levitous and free, as they walked in the open air and fall of winter snow; cold of the flakes rouging in touch and melt of cold and body’s rise-answer of inner warmth to surface painting cheeks and bridge of nose.
She held to his hand, each’s in gloved wear, and she looked to the sky, its haze of gray and glow of sun-source through, as like when child she stuck out her tongue in catch of flakes in fall and laughed as she had when still a girl.
Winter was that way, when one didn’t rush or worry or force uphold to fixed and predetermined plans but simply enjoyed the world in slowing and fall of white from sky.
In the snow, no traffic drove and they had all the park alone. Snow dampened sounds in the mute of distance, only crunch of snow in step beneath and hush of the wind in pass reached in close sound and source of them.
She laughed in a mirth, in love of the time, as simple as it was.
He loved her in this way—and in all the ways she shared and showed, and lived spirit expressions; but especially then, in winter innocence and world of white entirely their own.