It's Snowing And All I Can Think Of Are Leaves To Wrap Your Memory, Leaves Pungent As Tea, Green Curls Alive With The Promise Of Fire, Shutes Like Fingers To Play A Tap On Your Skin. The Snow Is Wet Like Your Eyes At Parting, Cold As The Promise Of A Winter Dawn Wet Again As City-Streets I Must Tread To Make A Living, The Flask Of Wine Pressed To My Lips. On The Winter Landscape All I See Is The Ghost White Of Sheets, Our Sheets Wrapped To Keep Breath Warm The Log Cannisters Of Our Bed A Heady Raft Upon Which To Travel To Burn Up An Ocean Of Delight.