Icing (Poetry)

She is not dressed for snow —
the cold’s quite sudden kiss
stings her as she goes
bare-footed, eyes enchanted
down the track —
treading whiteness newly-fallen
and untouched
two straps a blood-red cross
upon her back.

The trees are iced for winter —
picturesque —
their bark unfeeling
unlike skin and flesh
that aches from freezing
causes her to flinch
and shiver with the snow’s raw caress —
biting to the bone
and numbing inch by inch.

Her footprints are the first —
spontaneous the claim
on this momentary white —
her reward the stabbing pain
slowly vanishing —
both snow and love alike
so perfect for a day
before the nature of them changes
and the icing melts away.