Then Winter - Poetry Potluck

This is one I wrote some time ago. It's a cold, misty day today, which feels just right for this. I also think it fits, sort of, into the poetry potluck category.


Then Winter

Trees stand cold as iron;
Mist, like tattered souls
Wraps ‘round limbs,
Blows through branches,
Gathers and swirls
Thick in one spot
Above the pond.

From the center rises
A ghost-pale woman,
Hair and eyes grey like smoke.
She whisks off
In a great hurry;
Translucent robes
Stream out behind.
She is bone-cold
And world weary
There is anguish in her eyes -
No ‘rest in peace’ for her.

She is wind,
Blue-grey and icy,
Chasing autumn south,
Making way for winter,
Frost at her heels.
She must rush
Or it will encase her
In a brittle, crystalline statue of herself -
Then winter…winter.