Like scurry-hurry mice

and slippery, whiskery sighs

they fall into night’s snuggle-bed.

Sleep-sand

scrub-rubbed off God’s hands.

Ice-glitters flitter

and pile upon downy, floury piles.

Who-whoosh-shipping wind tongues

out to lick the tippy-itsy nose edges

and kissy-face hedges sips upon pavement

and tumble flakes, fumble flakes,

pile them against door.

And ever so quietly, meek and mildly

the whitest of nights and cold bitter fears

settles, sighs,

and reaches for warmth.

Our morn’s creamy delight

an ice rink, busy bustle-gowned,

hidden color-wonderful sight.