Snow as pure as eye contact,
fresh from sleep, and candid.
We are rooted in wheezes and gasps.
Vapor shouts our delight.
Marred tundra, traipsed upon with
flat tires. Blame the frost
for shaking hands, but I see through
your haze. You were afraid
of my footprints.
And then, inch after inch of silent
hopefall becomes feet,
and we can’t see out the windows. I too
fall, sink deeper into your cloud,
reeled and blinded.
But we are not we.
So as not to trample upon the fragile white,
I linger on the stoop. I am the great
withholder of affection.
Soon, bitten words will pour like blood,
melt our surroundings, and drown your fear.