I feel, too much, too fast, too soon.

I feel,

too much,

too fast,

too soon.

Is it a balmy boon?

Or a blasted bomb?

In the making?

Or for the taking?

He rakes the leaves of my heart,

into neat piles to start,

and then, in childlike fashion,

goes crashing,

on top of the piles,

full of happy smiles.

I feel,

too much,

too fast,

too soon.

Is it a curse?

Or, is it worse?

Is it a blessing?

Should I be confessing?

She molds the snow,

in entertaining show,

around my angel frame,

and buries my shame,

always reminding

me of my name on icy silver lining.