The woods are lovely dark and deep
and I have no promises to keep.

The snow will melt soon and I will hesitate,
leave it too late to play in it.

Black and white from gold and blue,
branches blacken the skyline like veins,
the bloodless rhythms of a barren land.

Can this be the same world?

Hiding and watching snowflakes swirling,
every hot breath quickly unfurling
blankets the window’s glass
as warmth from the fire makes my hair start curling.

I stay in writing these lines
with a white crunch of dread.
Fear of the cold, fear of the pines
fear of passing hours, fear of these times.

Fire crackles behind as a teacup steams,
a book invites me to a world of dreams
none of them my own.

An empty room that’s full of things.