The crisp
and cold are
wondrous and alive
on my skin.

A swarm of
ten million
fruit flies,
the whirlpool
of falling snow,
are insects
I don’t mind—

Are insects
I really love,
fueled
by the bleak
shy sun

of a time
when snow
can bury
our problems
six feet deep

and our footprints
mark the hours
when
we walked
together
in the snow

but too cold
at night,
our promises
of forever,
so joyous in
the warmth,

leave nothing
but teardrops
on eyelashes—


the dripping ledges
all but freeze.

And inside,
our spirits,
trapped in place
so in a single
blink
we could
all
just

shatter.