for you

Soft snow fall in the dead of winter.
A series of grey on grey on
grey? White?
It's beyond me
and my limited sight.
I have no vision for the dark
I cannot see beyond that shadow
I see this and you.
And I-
Footprints, oh, of course.
You ran through the snow,
and it settled on your shoulders, your face, your hair
and you laughed as you twirled.
And the world around you was grey.
But yet it was not a sorrowful thing.
For grey - and white and black -
all are necessary and
the picture they painted was enough.
I could only follow silent, enraptured, entranced
wondering if I had by chance
stumbled into some strange dream.
One in which there was no waking
or in which waking was some illusion.
I always loved illusion.
You did too.
Or was it prestidigitation?
Never mind, magic is magic is you.
You toss your hair and in the dark,
You are a spectre or better yet
some frozen faerie, some
THING
of ice. Of cold. Of snow.
You dance and laugh, and
you stretch your hand out to me.
I take it.
There is no alternative.
And you drag me into the snow,
into the shadow of bare trees.
You weave between them and I -
I follow in your wake,
helpless to break from your guidance.
I'd be a fool otherwise, wouldn't I?
"Your fingers are ice," I said.
"And yours are fire," you said.
"Does it hurt?"
"Only a little."
And you drew your ice and cold away.
Should I have reached?
Should? Could? Would?
If even I had tried would it have-
Have?
I don't know!
Watching was enough for me.
Touch was too much.
Too real, yes, too real.
It took me from my fantasy.
My princess of ice, my queen of cold.
You are neither in worlds that are not grey,
not white,
not the dead of night,
not the dead of winter.
In spring you are not
the growing of new leaves, nor flowers,
nor in summer are you the heat, the rain, the thunder.
Nor in fall are you the windstorms,
the brilliance of colour,
the slow decay and death.
Sometimes...
Sometimes you are those.
But never always.
And even then we must retreat,
leave our dreams and our fantasy
and embrace other things.
Less childish things.
"Don't think about that," you say.
"It's hard," I say.
"Keep trying."
"For you?"
"For me."
I think-
I think I can stay just a while longer
in your winter and your night,
in the shadows, the grey, the snow.