The statement you scrawled in snow

upon my bonnet stuck for a good few miles.

Until an uphill straight caused your escrow

to flake in perfect intervals,

and vanish into the hills like ashes from an urn.

First the L, then the A. Last,

the heart splintered into an air that thinned the skins

of Twyford trees and of us- cast

out to a disappointed 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 as if 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.