Poetry: Lost Snow Prints

I never see the snow.
not here. not in this city.
frost seeps while I slumber,
a quiet but unsettling tranquillity

the night becomes colder,
my sheets are less warm
my legs curl up into the covers
so that I return to the foetal position I was in
when I was born.

I cling onto any sensation of warmth
the frostbite recovers, but the feeling doesn’t leave
lost snow prints, its after-effects
I just don’t know if it was real.

the morning arises again,
as dawn always does.
but soon, you would never know
with the rooftop remnants gone,
that just last night — it had snowed.