Snowed

In fondant ice, each inky branch
is new-seen, bowed.
When “for ever after” is exposed

as “now,” is that invention?
Or merely what’s beyond plot’s reach?
I choose the latter, breaching

impossibly without past
or future, a frozen tongue
lipping the roof’s ledge.

Why not fall, like the comet’s char?
As in: I never dreamed of this.
Yet here you are.