In the cold, isolated cabin
with your hands underneath
my skeleton fingers,
we find bliss in the smooth, sinful snow.
And in the fire that reflects our passion,
we adorn our bodies with nothing
but the icy touch of our once
forlorn existence.
I observe a fawn,
gallop across and make the snow
fall from the leaves, gently,
like soft seeds blowing through
the air of spring.
And in this season, the amphibians
are buried in the litter of leaf
and mud, hidden beneath the earth.
As we are, the past, now
burried under the crisp, dead leaves,
that covered the ground in
shameless Autumn.
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