Snow in Summer - golden shovel

I pop a little white moon from the packet of fifty as pain's tidal wave pulls at the shoreline of me and springs a summer of shocks, where words and their smiles are the only saving antidotes I've got. I'm taking little glass-spun breaths in an airless hospital waiting room, rereading the same line in an asinine magazine article about the cost of living crisis. Do they know anything of the true cost of life? Or being lost in the white-weighted woodlands of snow-spun death? Maybe a slow-spun death, as I find myself counting down months with a will to write out all that I am, whenever I can. Whenever I go will I see these little white numbing moons turn to blood-sticky maroon: a sweltering melt of pain? Will I see the sweet and the sweat become sour by the hour? The heat-glazed day now turns its whole gaze on this tiny red cherry ripening by my right nipple. Their voices freeze out and I'm hung by the rope of impossible hope, as the sonograph probes with the cruellest finger of winter, and I'm numbed by sudden snow. Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. A.E. Housman - Loveliest of Trees