La Mort D'Hiver
I saw the death of winter
slain in her unexalted splendor.
They hate to see the death of spring,
hate to see the death of summer.
But they do not care if winter dies.
Her cloak of ivory turned muddy grey,
her harsh light so sickenly made artificial.
The biting frigid wind loses it's razor cut, becomes
faint and frail; disease makes it soft and tepid.
Black, foreboding mountains,
their jagged peaks stabbing the pale sky.
Her passing redefines their melancholic edifice
and compel them to be innocuous,
covering them with cloying foliage.
And that is the death of winter
It is not sad or tearful, only cruel,
like a slow malignant cancer.
I mock those who weep.