I feel like a Swedish infant
who is about to be covered with a mousse
of cosy snow. Like I have been left out
in the twinkling air by a lattepappa
who is happy to park me in a grid of prams
while he gets panini with the other dads.
Like the cold is a character-building friend
rather than a health-depleting hater.
Like I will grow up to be an upland-striding
strongman with lungs of winter,
with a spleen and fingernails of winter,
able to punch clean through a glacier.
Like the darkness from outside will pour
into the room like a gamma ray burst.
Like I will change inside and grow a fine fur
of darkness of my own. Like I spend
the nights now dreaming prehistoric words
like chillwarm and fluffdrift and snome.