The silver drops
cascade down.  

Golden, rouge, sepia;
dry tornado in the

ally between the two
bars, on the

windows keeping my
eyes wandering the

landscape.  Locked in
not escaping the cold,

kept in the grotto
with my Falling heart.

Waiting for the warmth
to spring ahead

before we will frolic
in the navy abyss

while the iced flakes
graze our hair and fill

the land with a
blank slate.