Every night we hibernate, cosy in our den, the covers lies in folds and ridges, a snow drift stretched between us, domestic topography,
Frost scratching its way across the windows, winter sun barely disturbing our slumber,
And every morning we half-wake, uneven and confused, losing fragments of dreams fading, wondering why it isn’t spring, and shuffle through the day, evading the wide-eyed embrace offered, shy of text and tones and intrusive lights,
While some are energised, to make change and plans, we let each day remain unchanged, untouched, unruffled, with no more energy than subsistence, not breaking the rhythm of slow slow sleepy slothful observance of the conditions that keep us still,
Awaiting the turning point, the slow tilt towards, the sun in our face, until then peace, content to let the days pass, forgetting each one as if we had slept through them all, something we read immersed in a novel,
The outside world an unforgiving place, reminders everywhere, wind whistling regrets and broken promises, threats and insults,
And later much later after the distant winter sun fades out and the moon appears against the black, and the lights are inside the walls,
We prepare ourselves again, to bed down again to sleep through, cosy enough hopeful, and cancelling the lights, to sleep through, to another season.
Smothered the snow drift rearranged, long slow breaths disappearing into the night, the steady train to neverland.
Dreaming to die under cover, and wake renewed with the equinox.
