Leaning in, wise and cruel.
In sleep my heart greets guests, offering immunity.
Going wide, immunity is madness in snow season.

Snow this soon is a surprise. (Didn’t know I’m a novice enthusiast, a manner of pity.)

Should I despair?

It’s snowing, nothing personal, wafting like foaming love over my awesome hamlet —

Further out the world is grown up with descriptors peeling off like spiders hustling always. Snow as hustlers.
There’s a method they share, I whisper to myself, falling for the freshest ingredients.