We are snug blanketed under a layer, thick and soft

the wreck of the garden beautified by it

the rooves insulated

gate iron curlicued

thickened in outline

 a stuttering blurred underlining

snow font.

Walking and feeling the tense squeak

unfamiliar gait to ache our thighs

we are un-gendered,

muffled, pillowed

crack of face, eyes skenning

comfort only in the floor

to plant our feet on something stable

and then the stamping

shaking white and moulded grey from cleats and tread

stinking of the sweet and cold,

bringing outside in.

But then it’s only right

at this time of the year

when we’re

syrup clad in a noon

that’s almost dawn and nearly dusk.