Can you thus imagine us: slipping sideways through the snow. Leaving trails like rails, interpretation always seems to melt so slow. Wondering just how far and fast these bodies and these sleds can safely go? And if anyone’s around? Dear, there is no one around. Then we’re trudging, barely budging, through the neighbor-lady’s yard. Leaving marks with muddy boots inside the snow, it seems this sod is scarred. Can you tell me when did covering your tracks become so awful hard? With nobody else around, just this slippery double-agent: Muddy Ground. Dusk is nearing, and the steering wheel is frosty to the touch. Water melting off my boot sends my foot slipping from the clutch. But despite this chilly wind, my friend, my cheeks have heated far too much for these feelings to be chance, so I steal a sidelong glance. The heater’s blasting, a puddle fastly-forming ‘neath your thawing cuff. The moon it shines; a thousand pines reflect its light from on the bluff. As we pull up to your house, a silver icicle breaks off your roof—hits the ground and splits apart. Falling is a dying art. Halfway home, remembrance revealed you had left your hat alone in a field. White hat, white-out, wild winter seed. White hat, White hat, why have you now gone away? Could it be that you got cross and couldn’t stay. Lonely are the days stuck inside when weather’s bad. Snow is so appropriate for hiding winter garb. Now let’s kiss. Just stand like this: put your mitten in my glove. As these flakes of snow come down, silent from the sky above. With a twinkle in my eye and wrinkled nose, I give your chest a shove. Stumble backwards into white. I hope we take this tumble right.