This is Winter

The sky is empty, not a bird nor a butterfly.
It is also sterile, its azure pigment faded into slate.
Like a bloodless face drained of its color,
so the sky is pale, lifeless, and expressionless.
The clouds no longer float as individual entities.
No longer are they wispy acrobats-
twisting, turning, shape shifting.
Instead, like Lucifer and all his angels-
they have rebelled in the heavens and joined together-
determined to blot out the sun.
The sun merely hides behind them though.
And withholds its warmth and light-
much like a petulant child.
And like a child it plays a game of heavenly “peek-a-boo,”
sneaking glances from behind the gossamer veil-
that has become its fortress.
While on the earth below the trees stand-
like skeletal sentries guarding who knows what.
Their limbs, once adorned by foliage accessories-
that hung like drops of emerald from a chain,
and swayed in the breeze in salutation,
are now outstretched and bare, crooked and black,
like the arms of a black robed crone.
A blanket of white covers the ground-
and sparkles like a teasing flirt.
Looking light in all its thickness-
looking innocent in all its brightness-
it hides the secret of what rests beneath it.
A temporary confidence kept for the barren earth underneath.
It is a brilliant canvas.
A virgin page.
A pliant medium.
Waiting to be drawn upon, tracked through-
molded or crafted,
into a short lived work of art or temporary historical record-
made by the hands and feet of man.

This is Winter.

© Copyright 2009 Heather Bahnmaier. All Rights Reserved.


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