The night was spent jostling with ghosts of a not very distant past,
the morning was all snow.
Snow, white as the leaves of a notebook at the start of the term.
Snow, white as the promise of a fairytale.
I dig for a fistful, the snow is hot;
Hot, as the ambered eyes that wept all night.
Snow, numb as forlon love.
I dig yet deeper to feel the soil,
the mulch of dead leaves and broken promises foils my progress.
A mulch, which carries the hope of verdant pastures,