Barrows

If I let it, the snow piles and drifts.
So deep, and deeper.
So cold, til it’s warm.
So silent, my underground mausoleum tomb.

When I’m in, I can perceive no way out.
When I’m out, the way back is ever clear.
So tempting, I yearn.
So enticing, the dampening shield of protective womb.

Even in spring thaw
so warm in its bright yellow light,
the quiet of sun’s rays ensnare
to lay me out dry on a grassy hill of silence.

Even when immersed in sound – in busy – in bustle
I hear its soundless call.
Voiceless, I understand.
Murmuring and hushed, I attend the better.

I could be lured back by circumstance or pain.
By inattention or carelessness.
In truth, I could be drawn in by floating motes
disguised as secret longing
to be covered in snow.