I have been to the mountains where I have cried.
I climb hills not for the vista.
I climb for falling down the rabbit hole.
Then, I plummet down the icy gully.

I have drowned in bathtubs where I have smiled.
I swim in cold bathtubs not due to recklessness.
I swim to delude my presence.
Then, I hitch-hike upto the peak.

I do these things I cannot understand.
Reality slips away,
like fresh snow and water slip from my bare hands.
I climb to the mountain and fall to the bathtub.

You came and left
Without a mark to remember,
Much like the cold snow days of peak December.

My worries do not reside in what I can do,
Rather, the heart-spun tether I attached to you.

There was snow and ice before,
a window, pause
of sharp prettiness passing
that petty poets could read a lot into

or just realise that once it’s gone
the garden looks like ****

Plenty of snowflakes,

you don't see them further on –


until they form fog.

i wonder i

really really wonder

why does nothing seem wonderful anymore.

your smile is not as warm as it used to be ....as lil wayne said i got ice in my veins

morning snow gave me a cure turned my frown upside down

the beauty of fresh silk cast upon naked grounds by the master weaver himself

the real beauty lied in the characteristic of it's ability to rush my blood to my skin, make my temperature drop below body regulation, a prolonged decision of hypothermia

in extreme cases of hypothermia, victims undress themselves and are found naked in the cold due to biologically responsive effects

we are born naked , why not die naked too

at least we died cool (pun)

it makes me wonder
i really www -ww-woo-w-onde

(slows breath)

r

Frozen stem
Frozen jem
Loud crack step
Loud crack prep

Snowy hill
Snowy thrill
Kids on trays
Kids afray

Snow goes away
Sky still grey
Ice starts to form
Ice becomes norm

This simplest trick
this majesty of dropping a degree
or two
and changing water into happiness,
nostalgia,
frozen fingers, cheeks like beacons
mittens heavy with sodden, laughing weight,
your daily haunts

transformed

and yes, the brown sludge days
will come, as always,
but for now the National Lampoon
sledge run past Tumnus
and the boxed delights
can have our hearts and minds

The fog loses purchase
on the window
and, dying, wicks
ashy vapor's slick scatter
to gated green-brown.
Morning comes again
in fractioned crooks
of snow declining
into fat eggs of rain.
The fog is a colossus,
ravels with dragging step,
before retiring itself
above oak branchlets.  
The sun wraps away
in gray, as if stolen.  
Nativity of cloud.
I'm telling you this:
everything is possible.

we both admit to still having our pictures on our phones
the one where you shredded yourself into pieces,
and tossed them into the air,
telling me to catch you
but I lay on the ground--
waiting for you to reach me