Some nights when the snow is silent,
only the moon burns as it arcs
through the night.
Coaxing moon-flower and evening star
into confiding in its magic.
But magic alone, is not enough
to secure the apple-cart,
or endow the adder with agency.
Some nights, even the Styx freezes over.
Giving the snow a chance
to shine, bright as Charon’s solitude.
Caught between ice and fire
in the long nights of ferrying and panic.
Now hound and thief move in
for the kill, in a bid to steal
obolus from the mouths of the dead.
Only to find the ghosts have flown
the coup. Proffering snow, as a metaphor
for exiting hell.