Ballad of Br-r-r-r

From this...

to this...

...within an hour!

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