the eye of winter

I've spoken ten futures into the eye of a winter's white- blinded was. I'll speak one more. I'll tell it, not blinking, what it will see isn't what was, isn't what was lost, but it is what we've learned. From it, I'll take the chill. I've taken its biting wind, to speak. And so, to speak to it, I speak a name first. It assures me. The eye of winter reassures me there's a web hidden in its cataract white, whiter still. Hidden in those sticky crystals is a future too. If you'll speak it to me.