The statement you scrawled in snow
stuck upon my bonnet for a fair few miles,
until an uphill straight caused your escrow
to flake in perfect intervals,
and vanish to the hills like ashes from an urn.
First the L, then the A. Last,
the heart splintered into a wind that thinned the skins
of Twyford trees and of us- cast
out to a crestfallen sorrow in your eyes
and a lost-lamb look to see if I could stretch my skills
to catch the sugary frostlets at the wheel,
and reconstruct our pairing like Roman tiles.
Instead, I thawed the icicles of your ordeal
by remarking that our love was now eternal,
fostered by Mother Nature to return
on a day like this each and every year.
It would fall just as December begins
and blanket us to ensure we still cohere.
What’s more, it’d still descend from those skies
long after our ashes had settled together in the hills.