Frost

the eaves bend as a gardening back might,
responding to the snow’s weight with surprising resilience.
footprints below harken to a journey northward
or westward or backward because she never was good with directions.

the chill outside is as striking as the chill within
the vapor before her face pumping in rapid spurts,
warm breath quickening with her pace.
there are miles to go before she sleeps
sleeps
sleeps.

the sun is bright but no warmer,
like a candle behind glass
or an advert’s smile.
she warms her ears with promises instead.

in too deep?
feet in snow, heart in the future
the same chill that numbs her toes
preserves a cracking heart

preserves an exemplified ideal
like a zoomed-in-on snowflake.
no two utopias are alike--
one will surely melt first.