White Fire

White Fire

It’s after midnight,
and the snow is unmarred,
free from angels and stomping feet.
The flakes that fall are like
sugared down, or sweet cotton,
and it begs for the thirsty tongue.

How much cold can you take?
Will it ice your skin
or turn you blue?
I look at the crystal floor,
beyond the covered garden
and I see an invitation,
a temptation in the white.

A blanket on the snowflakes
and two frenetic bodies
will heat the coldest winter eve,
and leave the most lovely
of imprints.

There would be no
contemplation of the cold,
but only flakes melting,
drizzling down the blushed skin.
The hot breath of lovers
and the husky sigh
of your name, will bring
pink to your cheeks and
fill you with heat.

I like the fire and
its hisses and crackled spit.
Yet tonight, I’m warmed
by the sight of this ivory cool.

Imagine the liberation
of love in the snow
and tell me that it doesn’t
tempt you.

Goosed flesh and the
cover of bluish twilight
will lure you from the
safety of linens and shams
onto this marriage bed
in the snow.

In the snow,
in front of the arctic garden,
now denuded and deflowered,
I wait for you,
and think of
lazy purple springtime.

Your touch
will evoke shivery chills
but the snow
and all of our rimy barriers
will swiftly melt away.