When the snow waits for you

It's different at night,
each front garden watches
as we walk,
their grotesque creations
peer through sunken stone sockets,
fake grins that taunt laughter until it sits
quiet under the crunch of our footprints.

Heavy arms in wet woolen coats
tire as we fire artillery  
across cobbled streets
unable to sustain the excitement
of childlike exchanges
now aware of the slush
leaching into our trenches.

The street lights bath us
in orange moons,
flurries swirl
in a silent stinging swarm
before we,
the frozen flowers of night fall,
begin to wilt on our branches.

Tapping on leaded windows frames
we greet firesides with a gaze
of melting eyelashes.
Our breath condenses innocence
on glass we once looked through
as the crystal glint of childhood
slips further from our view.