If you are going to write a poem, don’t write it about love – or snow. Thousands of poets have said all there is to say. Is there any way left to make it make more sense without a tense of pretentiousness? These things have been written. My fingers, though bidden, have little to add to the page upon ages of poets’ images. Sage proposals to carve a meaning out of myth. To fit more words on a paper monolith! So don’t write about how exquisitely it drifts through shifting memories, lifting expectations. Don’t write about how it blankets the dark with a cover of clean that cloaks remembering. The cold night drifting on dreams of maybe and might have been. Even when feeling bleeds through inky muscles aching with restraint of holding words back from the page! Don’t write of these things! Show me – don’t tell. Show me the swell of heart in every beat. Hold me, melting, hearts on ice, red on white. I want to feel the cold of you, burning. I want to know the heat of you, yearning. Show me.