The fire in the frost, a raging coldness here -
is beautiful in form, entwined in frosty leaves.
White diamonds, precious gems, are hidden in those eaves
like earrings made of ice, and shining like a tear.
My heat dissolves the fire – touching there, I sear.
A window opens up, upon the pane from me,
until, within the handiwork, a gap I see
and fingers five of mine so mutely there appear.
The spiny trees I see, through window’s window seen,
and frost imposes on their shapely, tepid green.
I leave the bus. The wind is bitter, though I see
the funny, backward things the kids had scribed in words.
Adorning them, the frost appears like trees or birds,
perhaps a souvenir of bus ride scenery.
Fun ending! I like when your poems reflect your teenage life. It's so unique since I don't come across a lot of teenage poets. :)
ReplyDeleteWell, I guess teenage sonneteers are hard to find these days, aren't they? :P
ReplyDelete