Nothing Cold Can Stay

The poet Robert Frost is buried in
the snowy fortress,
the chilly mountains,
the creeps
and pitter patters
of ice
hailing to the ground.
He is under
like holding breaths
and guiding hands
to places forbidden,
cold and lonely.
Frost is bowing in his grave
to ideas
carved in snow.
My angel is words -
a shovel trapped in the frozen
dirt. I'm digging
too deep,
below the wrong surface.
Frost is asking for relief,
so I grab into his world
and write his
goodbye.