The winter’s such a crude reminder of your face –
how could you be so frigid in this time of warmth?
These wintry hexagons shall always be a storm
and never beauty, only wickedness, light grey,
so pallid, lethal in betrayal – oh, such grace! –
that murders me, and murders me, and snaps my heart,
which melts, refreezing to the bitter, icy stars
of winter – snowflakes – delicately, cruelly made.
And snow I shovel, push away in growing piles.
But you – I cannot purge – yet you have purge my wiles.
And what have I but tattered snowflakes, littering,
polluting blank expanse within my asphalt mind,
obstructing darkness with the ancient hope of time?
Now even Spring cannot amend my shabby wings.
Inspired by Beth's writing prompt about weather
ReplyDeleteThanks again, Beth.
Well if i was wrong about this and it really is just another sonnet about your relationship with snow, you could atleast say so :) Honestly though, I can't believe you're going to ignore me...please say something.
ReplyDeleteThis sonnet speaks about how snow reminds me of loss. Something about its delicate and quiet fall paints a picture of wistfulness and melancholy in my mind.
ReplyDeleteSo glad I live in the south. :)
ReplyDeleteI miss Texas! :(
ReplyDelete