If I may stretch a metaphor a little
The snow is your affection. It will melt,
Is melting, into rivers of damp spittle;
Has lost the sense of grandeur that I felt
When first encountering its fast approach;
Will soon be gone. In winter it is best,
But when spring's stirrings come, without reproach,
It flees - perhaps allowing a harvest
Of new-sown seeds that otherwise would die.
And underneath it all, a sheet of ice,
Deadly and cold - deceptively dry
And slippery - in no way soft or nice...
I don't think that I'll push this anymore,
For after all, it's just a metaphor.
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