Soft hands from a horizon I don't know
Flit small tufts of shimmering white sea
And gingerly test the bones of each tree
To - or from - a world I'm too scared to go

There's a warmth set inside here that imposes
That I reach not past the glass and open no door
That I break not the paths my heart once bore
But my garden is now frosted and I've only corpses of roses

The crackling hearth whistles, snaps and proposes
That I settle my regrets and wrestle no more
Renunciate the whispering wishes and settle my core
But is this warmth just a trapping as the door slowly closes

The frost looks not biting, not sharp as my woes
And the roads look not traveled, not as worn down as me.
But the snow has kept falling, unbounded and free
And I've wasted these moments, too, lamenting my throes.