accumulations of snow

In the midst of a wind-driven snow,
in reykjavik,
on pingholstraetti street,
I watched an irridescent moon play with the ice that covered your heart;
sculpting it ever so gently as your dreams played the keys upon an old worn piano.
The sound of your nightmares filled a scream in a vodka-filled glass.
I wanted to run , to hurl the words from my own dreamscape into your composition.
I wanted you to play the sound as seagulls crashed into storm-laden waves.
I wanted you to know the sparrow's song when dawn broke from a sculpture of ice.
I wanted you to see the snow fill our footsteps as we walked across the lava field into the light of the sky.
I wanted you to know the cry of my child as she awakened from dreams that faeries spun in the night.
I wanted you to see the purity of colour painted upon my canvas of cobalt and rush of white as it crossed the darkness of black.
Instead,
I drew a circle of leaves the finest autumn could bring,
and laid my tears upon them
hoping,
in my heart,
to fall forever into the shadow of your soul;
ribbons of glass breaking under the strain of your twilight echo.