Snow

We give in.

The sun is only a shard of life -
and there are cracks, too many -
we're eaten dry, our longings
slipping beneath our feet
as we walk to the top -
a foggy top -
the climax of our pains.

There, where it snows,
the breath is a fume
that billows from the soul
until it is lost
to death.

As the shard falls flat,
I hail the white shroud -
between my short breaths
and the windmills of snow,
you are lost and how!

Wanting to let go
of my icy hand -
wanting to clutch
the billowing fume -
wanting to unearth the fire
that would undo doom.

You, with your feather flight,
and I, with my shackled heart,
give in to the white -
give in
too soon?