You were there all Summer behind warm trees waving, waist-high grasses hanging from our belt holes. Now lying still under ice of your own making I think about skating or pressing my cheek close to your window; knees by my chest, skates cutting a hole, blowing hot air and writing my initials with a gloved finger. I cycle past, brakes broken from cold and shrieking louder than before. The swans stay in their corner Bleibtreustraße as snow comes down and you are not. Staying true. This isn't your season the playground filled with Christmas wind but in Spring they'll come again with rucksacks and babies bigger than last year; made fat on the same geese who once laid their eggs here and tripping up on their laughter we'll chase each other's children our own strapped like birds to our backs and they'll make songs for the Summer to float like boats along the soft water.