Beneath the Snow of the Ancients

Blustering dowry          
in the sapped swollen blue and white flake.            
            
Ice in the side of my waist            
mounting out            
as it had been plunged above my other hip by a skiing archer.            
           
Vessels imbue in the frost arrow
as a violet gem.            
If suspended in the trill of the flickering snowdance,          
I'd don Skaði again in her crystalline prime            
           
forgetting my passion with Surtr and those sun streaks of the gods I slew to arrive,            
           
namely the Brave and the Great, for my feelings are cowardice.            
           
But I refuse to look my piercer in her vapor-compressed irises          
and take the sword of the light of the Múspell            
and coax her mountains into the sea arrayed in endless squaking.  
           
You,            
weren't you the one encased in the joys of that peak            
now that the ears of the goddess have sharpened against the tide?    
           
Might I ask:            
is there love in entropy?