Crisp steps of lightly fallen snow
Echo against the moans from the old forrest
As Jack wistles through them.
We gaze through the skeletal branches
Connecting-the-dots with the constellations
we cuddle under.

When the cold seeps too close to our bones
We drift inside
A kettle already beconing our names

We sip our drink
The warmth showing on our cheeks.
A small nurished tree,
adorned with dimming halogen lights,
softly illuminating the dark.

Wreathed in each-other again,
I resume the tale of our story
Paper gently scratching, as time slows
to the tic-toc rhythm of our
full and tired hearts.