Standing close to the window pane,
She cleared openings over vapory glass.
Watching hordes of white bird feathers,

Scattering over earth in invading snow.
Looking towards a heavy bosomed sky in silent sighs,
She muttered in breaking lips
“What does this snow mean to you?”
He had sunk into a distant corner of the room,
Far from the vapor window, retreating to his own warmth.
“Snow” he replied “is the scurry of people.
Snow is the recluse of home,
the enforcement of peace over disputed boundaries”
She closed her heavy eyelids that were lined in sharp black.

“What is snow for you” he asked looking away from her form,
That had drawn a long veil shaped shadow,
Over a tall window glass.
She raised both her palms and pressed them over a cold window,
Like seeking an open prayer on days,
when even God seemed to have forgotten ‘His forsaken’.
“Each snowflake is a wish made in burning autumn,
That quenches my parched heart”
“Raised like a prayer when in its fall,
Cold and indifferent when it settles.
Like that love; precious when it is sought,
Detached and impervious when attained”

“Snow” he said “is light and darkness”,
Looking up the blank lamp and pulling his firepot close.
“Snow” she murmured,
“Is a hope that I shall survive,
These distances and your benumbed frost too”
Over black lined eyelids mustered some dew drops,
A storm was gathering in her winter reflected eyes.