Ode to Winter

August 10, 2010

As I peer out my window all is white but for a single holly berry, showcased, hanging to life.
The first animal tracks have made blue prints upon the snowy drawing board.
Only the lone deer and occasional cardinal inhabit your white wonderland.
The ice skates swirl patterns into the glassy pond.
The sun fades quickly now, night will soon be reaching.
There are a fewer bird songs, oh wait, it is quiet still.
The snow flakes dance from the sky, like ballerinas.
Snow capped mountains litter the horizon.
My mittens hang from the drying rack, pitter, patter, as your snow ever so gently melts.
I can smell nothing other than cinnamon and roasted chestnuts.
I have become infused with you.

Your gripping icy finger curls around my hand thrusting it towards your beard of icicles, like shackles.
Your snow white hair is wispily parted, upon radiant, pale, flesh.
The icy, billowing whirl of your breath blows my chocolate hair, clean, cool, and crisp.
It’s drying, sucking the life from my ever living body.
How is it possible something so beautiful possess such a cold heart?
Your midnight black eyes lure me into your spell.
Your raging temper flares, fiery and boisterous, but then you calm, and resolve to a trance.
I don’t know what to make of you?
You come only once a year, and yet every year you find me, relentless and strong willed. Your kiss is everlasting, but your last dying breath is perennial.
Your name is Winter.

As your breath diminishes, revitalized hope surges into my blood.
The crunch halts, the snow melts, and the ice thaws.
Croci burst threw the almost thawed ice, screaming for air and life, little messengers.
Oh look, the chirping birds on the horizon, they form a ribbon and an unbreakable bond.
My feet sink into the mushy and squishy mud.
First buds slowly break from the seams of branches, which had once held them so tightly.
Now out my window, there is green haze illuminating through the forest.
The evergreens now stand among others of their kind, once again.
The streams are rushing high, swift, and strong, like a bull.
My palate which once included only a few colors is now screaming with bright ones.
A fresh page in the sketchbook, a new season.

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