Winter

She comes like the twilight,
Eyes clear and acrid, searing like frost;
She is the dichotomy of colour,
Skin pale, white, too brilliant for the gloom--
Hair like ebony, black as chaos.
She is the dichotomy of passion,
Graceful hands gentle and caressing, soft--
Graceful hands killing with merciful swiftness, remorseless.
The planet pulsates with the zeal of her coming--
Hectic and rising, driving, shivering;
The air is still. The Silence has come.
We forget quickly, for why shall we remember?--
She brings merriment. Spindles of fire, twining, rejoicing--
All is warm and round. The dance is interwoven and deft,
Complex and turned inward on itself;
Perfect.
The woods are like sugar ornaments posing, shimmering--
They are crystal, sparkling in the pure silver light of the sun.
She flows like a sigh into our midst, soft breath sparkling,
Igniting the flaring candle jewels, resplendent in their burning intensity,
The incense smoke twirling, spiraling elegantly--
The music flies easily, careless and airy.
We cannot forget the howling of the ice,
We cannot forget, so we ignore.
Her majesty is eternally focused, piercing, stabbing;
It is a delicate razor for a radiant, glossy world,
Slashing-- but we are enveloped. Safe.
Droplets of rainbows that may have been tears are crushed.
High above, distant and lofty, she will watch--
We huddle with hearts fair and blithe, and she drifts through emptiness.
The air is lethargic and secretive.
There is more to this than only us, more to this than only her.
Yet there is no need to know what it may be, today or ever,
For we are glass stars glistening in the heavens,
And we are as we are to be.