It groans with the effort
- the door’s creak -
of holding back the light.
Or perhaps it’s relief,
to release it for one night.

He waterfalls in, into the void of the dark.
Spilling, widening fire on bone white birch bark.
Sparkling in the scarce light he’s swept in on,
stark and singing the bone tree’s kept song.

-You’re dreaming — she whispers,
as he tumbles down to her.
-I am dreaming- he sighs,
gazing into her eyes.
Behind them a glimpse
of his true reflection.
-But I am no prince-
tumbles out the confession.

She speaks to him in a language unknown.
Rolling off her tongue as fat, wet flakes of snow.
They all fall unseen in a field, grown alone,
onto wind-trampled goldenrod, frozen to stone.

They both don snow suits
and creep back under the covers.
In a dim linen cave whisper
of snowflakes to each other.

Mittens fumble with zippers
until her hand finds his.
Pressing it tightly to cold lips,
dissolving into a kiss.
They silence their solemn snowflakes,
until comes a breeze.
Their time here to take,
floating him out from the sheets,
It is a gust with no aim.
A wind with his own name.

Outside runs a stream
and it is not princely.
Just a small, muddy gully
bordered by thin trees.
Straight, wind tossed willows
Rise from soft mossy pillows.

This night, by the stream
the Prince silently sits.
He pictures a bridge.
A bridge built from sticks.
Or a bridge built of stones,
Or a tree felled just so,
hewn flat with an axe.
Held in rough hands.

But still he sits.
Feels current drag fingertips.
He does not raise a bridge.
No one will praise this prince.
This is no grand river, but a trickle.
And he is but a man, plain, simple.
This is his stream, to waste the day in.
Muddy, and slow and foul tasting.