Ethereal goddess bound by frozen thread
awaits for dying hours of the light
to sculpt the thorny crown upon her head
and bury season's passing with the night.
Her frosted eyelids close upon the breath
dismantled by the fallen fire trees.
White widow waits atop her coffin's seat
with pale lips mouthing: "Bring me into death."
Her throne, a rusting bed of evergreens
survives to shelter Summer's cold defeat.

The crystal stalactites hang from the sky
in icicles that summon shaking hands.
Her quaking palms are raised at Heaven's cry
in bold acceptance of its' grim demands.
What woman lies, bone-white, divine, demure
without a tear to spare after the call
of Winter's Reaper? Yet she shall lie with
the Earth held still by her fingertips so pure;
that glistening blue orb she won't let fall
remains confined within her weakened grip.

What Mother Nature knows, she tells to all:
"I will return; my body, soon reborn
will harvest human bones within this wall
and build the Earth anew. No need to mourn!
No death is permanent in Winter's song:
for every rose you torch leaves seed behind
and every poet poses with a pen.
The world you love will not stay gray for long."
And shuddering, the dark devours her mind,
and waits for Spring to let her wake again.