That winter idyll
By lena

If Jack Frost had nipped at my heels,
His mouth would have melted off—
A macabre display, snowman gone awry,
Jaw tissue and bloodied tongue blanketing
The white duvet of December.
Don’t let your children make snowcreme
Out of red snow.
I don’t belong in the idyll, in the
Scene of wintertime pastime—
My innards burn my flesh inside-out.
It’s too hot for winter; jolly old men
Fly reindeer in all the shades of gray.
I’ve reached Kelvin zero, I’ve gone
Supernova again, a heat so cold,
A freeze that incinerates.
It is as they say—I betray the natural order.
It betrays me.
It keeps going. My axis unmoved.
I used to drown in snow, it buried
My legs, white soft cement—
Climbed my thighs, overtook my
Breasts, claimed my chin and
Nose as its own—
Now snow-angels are tinted red by
The returning sun, that harsh
Unforgiving light, now snow
Melts, now the replaceable gray
Grass has overstayed its welcome.
Now it withers. Supernova with
Stardust-consumed death.
The cruelest months march forward,
Easter-lilies for swords and four-
Leaf clovers for shields.
Too much green, the most painful color for
Lifeless gray winter.
They say “spring forward!” when they
Know not the beauty of falling ever
Back, that soft winter serene.
I once fell in love with a snowlady;
Every growing-cold since hasn’t been the
Same.
I abide—my north pole heart—her
Arctic kiss—
Time’s verdant encroachment. The gray
Sky burning to ash, new growth-heralded.
That childhood admonishment, that
Youthful warning—
Christmas comes but once a year!
Red snow melts the same as the rest.
You grow up.