The quinzee caved in on itself after Springtime leaned its weight against its melting dome.

The layers of ice shards – which resisted the hooks of our reversed hammer more than the hard-compacted snow – were now too infirm to support the rays of the beaming sun.

The cardboard boxes, robed in black garbage bags, were pinioned beneath the still-great weight of the quinzee’s concentric ceiling. On all sides, save for the tubular entrance that I had bludgeoned into a gaping orifice which escaped all our flimsy body heat like a thieving knave, the walls rose around the pinned seats, that were used once only, for they could not keep the cold from our freezing buttocks.

Instead of digging a hole and filling it in, we built a hill and dug it out. Our stay was brief in this hovel, for we found the edges were too sharp and too cold. Some homes made out of snow will always be cold, no matter the amount of effort or warmth that are breathed into them. And, when the season changes, and the paltry union falls to pieces under the purveyance of the sun, then summer will come at last to breathe rejuvenation into the hearts of lovers.