For now it is bitter cold. Our blood cannot be heated. Our hunger never sated. The wind has stripped the branches bare, our angels stay a bit away.
I want to write a love poem to Snow, but the language itself is frozen.
Isa has come and kissed my lips, frozen my teeth, they will shatter if I speak, my tongue is a pink, swollen piece of meat.
That knife wind coming down will slice my skin off clean, sweep through the hollow of my ribs and empty eyes, howling a lullaby.
The pond is ice. It is black and bare. Beneath the thick layer, all things there are still and waiting, waiting.
Black birds light across the gray and sullen sky, in swirling formation they fly, on hills they land. Together they silently search the ground, together they leave again.
I am at the outpost, giving my witness as God wants. God declares a love poem appropriate observation. He says he wants Snow to feel welcomed in our hearts, to solidify our good intentions. Freeze Romeo and Juliet at the ball, Desdemona and Othello on the ship, Antony and Cleopatra on the eve of Actium.