I cannot rise, cocooned within
this blanket soft and white, for I am
solidified by an inhospitable landscape
            and you, my shrinking sun.

Encapsulated in my icy cell
and pierced by the distant echo
of your hollow wishing well,
            my soul shrieks.

The wind wails; she moans as
another spirit trapped, neither here
nor there, ever aware of winter’s
            imminent descent.

You think it all looks beautiful.
I am a survivor, you’d say. I fear not  
the encroaching icebergs so much as
            shock of your subzero heart.

Seek me out when, God willing
in the spring, your glacial soul feels
the prick of conscience, revealing
            a life of love beneath the ice.