Virgin Snow That Hasn't Been Penetrated Poem by Mark Heathcote

Would I sing for a meal?
made of snow and ice
that will melt within seconds
and not for an instance suffice.

This-is-how a night with you might be
physically satisfying maybe
or maybe not, maybe wintry
or like a hot running Epsom salt bath.

But I guess I'll never know
because I don't want to be
those first footsteps in the pristine snow,
a nebula that will-never-more after, glow.

Once you leave, walk through fields
abundant with sapphires
wet with morning dew,
viewing wildflowers other than me-and-you.