Three feet of ice and cold

Three feet of ice won't form

In one night's autumn chill,
But builds through all December's cruel freeze.

Three feet of snow won't thaw

In winter's fleeting day,
But melts away in April's gentle breeze.

Three feet of snow won’t fall

In flurries light and sparse,
But gathers over storm and crippling storm.

Three feet of ice won’t break

In moonlight pale and wan,
But cracks apart in sunlight soft and warm.

It was comfortable

It made a Box and It sat in it.
It was comfortable—for a little bit.
But then It grew.

The Box became too small.
It was suffocating.

It cried for help. Silently.

As if afraid to be heard.

Yet still hoping. Daring.

Daring to hope.

But Something did hear It.

Something tore. It scratched.

The Box was no more.

Something and It smiled at the Not-Box.

They looked up.

They smiled some more.

But It looked back at the Not-Box.

More and more It looked.

Then the Not-Box became.

It made a Not-Box and It sat in it.

It was comfortable—for a little bit.

But then It remembered Something. It cries.