snowflakes

December 25th. Cut holes in old books, like the one in my heart where the snow should be and the holly berries and the robins coming down to eat from my hands, starved by the winter as I am starved of it. Something sacrilegious about cutting up books, my hands were shaking, and all the elfdust in the world won’t make it real for me. Afraid I will never remember the poem on my lips as I woke at six am, all those years. Afraid all the pretty boxes won’t grant my wish, which would fit in an envelope really, with a 60p stamp. Afraid paper snowflakes on the windowpane are as close as I shall ever get (don’t let it be so, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.)