Etchings on your palm,
As I scribbled out my number,
Day was routinely long,
As I anticipated your call.

A soft ringing,
My hands tinged,
With nervousness,
As I pick up the phone...

Crestfallen,
You were not on the other line,
Yet it was a friend of yours and of mine,
Scarcely able to whisper the words,
That you had died.

They called me up,
My number,
Still inscribed on your wintry, dead hands,
Your slumber,
From which you'd never reawaken...

I set off dashing from home,
My bare feet, freezing, bleeding in the snow,
As I came upon your caged soul.

I sought for your brilliantly vivid, cheery eyes,
Behind closed lids,
Reached for your hands,
As I always did.

I relaxed by your side,
As long as was allowed,
Until your body,
Was raised from the ground.

I lay by you,
Crafting snow angels all across the ground,

You've now become a snow angel yourself,
A snow angel of winter.

Now smeared on your palm,
The words-I love you,
You will constantly belong,
Here beside me.


Your funeral,
Today,
I saunter,
In black silence.

After all expressions had been understood,
Poignant looks exchanged,

Your body six feet below,
But your faint spirit,
Within the reachable branch of my memory.

Those with grief had grieved,
The mourners had mourned,
And the last of the footprints sheltered in snow.

All alone, gazing at your headstone with cold, gray eyes,
Words engraved, whispering of your demise.

I collapse on top of your grave,
Presently lay,
Talking to you,
Through the earth below.

Emerging were the first of true tears,
Congregating upon the snow,
One reiterating the other,
Instigating to overflow.

I lay there,
Crafting snow angels upon your grave,

Becoming a snow angel myself,
We snow angels of winter.