From this...
Waist-deep stripped maples are rooted in white
Day-silence broken by stiff, creaking limb
Combing the air for sweet, softer respite
Naught do they find but a gale, grey and grim
Over a landscape of freshly-frothed cold
Dawn draws brief shadows in shivering gold…
We dream of green, not to pocket or spend
But that of carpets rolled out to the sky
When will the snow-dregs their last tiding send?
They spill fresh flurries in frigid reply
Combat is timid save for chimney flute
But the wind scorns its anemic dispute
Jack Frost has show-cased his art over-time
Though once he startled and awed still-life plot
Now, how we covet the zeal of a rhyme
Dappled with violet and forget-me-not
Sallow sun bleeds through bleak, boreal blue
Before snarling storm snuffs its wick from our view
Where is the ballad of brook-song and bloom?
Where the affections of sun-kissed caress?
Is there a balm for this ice-stricken tomb?
Will gentle zephyr stroke Hope’s budded tress?
But as we reach out with numb finger-tips
Wild Old Man Winter roughly kisses our lips
© Janet Martin
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