Christmas in July-No...August.
Winter-kill. mortalité massive d'hiver
The warmth of blankets on a fever,
and the chasm of rubbing hands on hands.
The bitter click of your tongue,
the rigid board of your back,
and the each individual snowflake on your lashes.
Breath, that becomes suspended in air.
Coffee cups in bloom, littering the dormant soil.
Longing for the July, Longing for the December.
War-paint of the singular variety,
my scarf and mittens?
My choice weapon...
the crystallized raindrops,
and asphalt slides.
The sky when darkness is his mistress,and
clouds, they like to hide.
The landscape could not be more desolate,
but my eyes reflect acres of blooms.
Don't the icicles make pretty hats?
Austere, though she may be...
I love the fill of fall into l'hiver