Wandering drafts, sly
Whisper in our ears
Shake the roots of our spines
We bury our heads for cold

Scanning the sky
For signs of dainty, floating crystals
Fluttering to the ground
In a hazy blue

Yet frost has frozen our pens
And there is blankness
The horizon is an empty tomb
Snow will liberate our words

The land is as desolate
As our papers
Both hesitating to speak
Some language of beauty