In the dark of night,

I lie in bed and listen to the

drip, drip, dripping of the melting snow,

a rare occurrence

to witness the city glistening,

all white and shiny,

like a young new bride,

hopeful and fresh,

amidst the cement monstrosities

rising everywhere.

I read my book, my movements kept to a minimum –

even the slightest action allows frosty air

to weasel its way under the covers,

slithering in a cunning invisible flow

all the way down to the bottom of the bed.

My nose is frozen, my fingers made of ice.

I nestle deeper under the duvet,

wishing it would magically start heating up,

all the while caught up in contradiction,

wondering how I can save this arctic sensation,

to use at will,

when the dreaded heat of summer comes

and I cannot bear its suffocating warmth

a minute longer.