a broken bottle of wine and snow scattered inside a monte carlo

snowstorms
will always ignite the child within
no matter how old
the thrill of dodging snowballs
and swinging on snow covered swings
in full force
the warm glances of those close
the red wine running through veins
and sadly, how quickly the moment ends
like childhood
and the snow
which melted the next day
and all that is left
are the wet clothes
the sting of cold hands and feet
and the remnants of red wine stained on lips