Close Season

Winter arrived, he’d flown overnight. He’s tired and tetchy, throws his bags to the side. His coat of polar bear fur is not fake. Goes to the cherry tree, turns out its light. For his minimalist chic he thinks a lot of himself. He's claimed the wardrobe and filled seven shelves. He’s painted the windows, and whitewashed the roof. He looks over my shoulder if I pick up a book. Dark mornings and long cold nights, the sky peppered with little white lies. Winter bringing the clean white sheets in, but whose bed does he sleep in? When he drifts off and I open his case, and I press his fine linen shirt to my face. But whose is this silk dress and lacy top Made only of breath stitched only by frost Dark mornings and long cold nights, the sky peppered with little white lies. Winter bringing the clean white sheets in, but whose bed Whose bed does he sleep in? His hands are like ice and the north wind blows A wolf howls in his voice and it starts to snow.