The page opens to snow on a field: boot holed month, black hour/ the bottle in your coat half vodka half winter light./ To what and to whom does one say yes?

You stumble through the winter’s breath,
Ice cold kisses on rose red cheeks,
Footprints that lead not so much from where you’ve been as to where you wish you could return,
But winter is the month of no return,
The pine trees mourn the melting snow, like a blanket ripped away before it has the chance to warm your feet,
The taste of “yes” is in your mouth,
That vile, bitter word,
But all at once both soothing and sweet,
You will not let it slip from your tongue,
Not until you return to where you’ve never been,
Not until the winter learns to hold onto its icy limbs for eternity.