Tuesday, February 3, 2009

This frigid wintry wind still blows forlorn;
From blue-black north the steel-grey clouds are sent.
The mountains with white fur themselves adorn,
And with that heavy fur, the firs are bent.
Look! Lacy crystals, gossamer they seem;
Yet look again, their jagged edges found.
And sifting down from heaven? No, they teem--
Collide, cascade, conflict, contend, crash down.
Benumbed are all by endless brumal skies;
All flesh is bit with brisk and bitter breath.
Abysmal, boundless winter -- future lies,
Hell frozen o’er, in truth’s a hellish death.
What’s this? In snow, a crocus head I see.
Thou, Winter, who deals death, soon dead shall be.


Tiffany said...

You. Are. Incredible.

And I have a title for this poem, but it includes a four-letter word. Let me know if you want it. :)

Kim said...

I am freezing just by reading your poem...and the fact that it's 16 degrees here. Hope you can dig out of your frozen hell.