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.

Blank Verse for Autumn’s End

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The window pales murky in the fog

covered morning as summer falls away

and chases dreams of life and light and dance

and warm embrace

when chance is spent for good

and feeling leaves withdraw, detach, and fall

to their subsequent slumber in the earth –

I know not where

the morning glories bow

their sightless eyes to depths unfathomed

the clock cooing in the distance again

disturbs my rest

upon an angel’s lap

my body purrs, awaiting patient’s pull

on tail ticked left bereft of rhyme or right

this autumn night

fading into the blue

gray haze of winter’s ice-cold grip of sleep

less pain and shaking fever flowered dreams

beneath me lies

receding warmth and life

outpoured in shudders gently held within

and trickling down through softly shaking hands

upon my neck

a gentle gaze is fixed

and founded in the face of saving love

that spared me from a mother smothering

my infant breaths

in faint and feeble steam

my gaze away peers through the glassy shield

which shelters me from feeling harsher change

as winter falls.

The Price of Holding Beauty

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a tree is a tree is a tree

even bound around with silver sheen

glassy crowns that pull them down

low bows an homage

an image to honor

a harsher master whose radiance stills

the hustling frenzy when life endures

idyllic hysteria with blindness to boot

set down to smooth sailing

we grab for the railing

and on we go wailing…

“Oh the rapturous glamour of nature encased

how it burns off our ears and the skin of our face.”

the crystal firs surrounding her

are whistling themes through colored rays

that croon like bells and bleed out knells

the gathering scatters

their flattery patents

along tabula rasa and a handful of flaws

like impotent seedlings with no protégé

nor future thereafter save swift dissolution

cathartic dispersal

this groaning rehearsal

of cold penitential

Ice Covered World by mamomof5.