First Frost

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Supple droplets coalesce

in morning mist, whose cool caress

embraces all in loneliness,

sinking into shallow ground.

Follows then a breath of air,

whose northern accent chills the fair

unfinished droplets, held with care

there upon my glass found.

Shining into crystal likeness,

bright and white and round –

they harden without sound.

Beaded strings of peasant pearls

twined about in crescent curls,

crawling up my window, whorls

unbroken in a line.

There beset with misting sweat

they bind together, tight and yet

their seamless sheen and coverlet

grows gently as a vine.

Silently, with silver strength,

they reflect the moonshine –

until the night’s resign.

Morning brings a glassy sight

a world engulfed in frost-fire light

and painted crystalline and white

in heavenly decor.

The dusted streets stand glistening

while festive boughs are listening

to birdsong southbound christening

the mountain to the shore.

The fragrance of festivity

wafts in and out my door –

til spring returns once more.

Through a glass darkly – to Picasso’s “Girl Before A Mirror”

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Toe to toe

against the glass

face to foe

turned calm caress

that bitter wind

cares carefully less

breaking sundered sight

that blurs unbidden

and shakes tonight

staring sharply across

piercing into you

remembering your loss

prevalent eyes disguised

and deemed unseen

in darkness hides

leaving shadows cast

out of Eden

fallen far past

the lies told

with silver bows

and biting cold

for your dismiss

she bends your

gazes away amiss

an inner shame

feelings that forget

your new name