It started again.
That damn twinge of melancholy that quivered
in her everytime she saw a leaf fall.
How she hated the cold months.
Hated them!
Coming with their inevitable fury, trapping her.
She would bundle up, drink coffee, anything to try and stay warm.
But somehow, they always got through her defenses.
Catching her up with their swirling winds, nipping at her.
She would take flight.
And they would follow.
And she would find herself naked and alone in a blasting wind of white
attacking the bare trees and stubborn pines,
and they would laugh at her.
She was trapped again.
Caught up in the majesty of it. Calling her.
Haunted by the wind’s lyrical melodies. Calling her.
She would reach, and touch, and feel and taste the snow,
laughing with all the giddiness and abandon of the little girl she once was,
the wind wildly tossing her hair, and she would say, very softly:
“Be still.”
And the winds would die.
And the snow would drift gently.
And the stars would glitter tranquilly in
her eyes.
She was held in reverence here.
They always had to remind her.
She was
a goddess.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Winter Woods / Day of the Dark Full Moon (compilation)
December 10th, 1983
All rights reserved
Beyond Panic 
Such wonderful imagery!
LikeLike
Thank you. Glad you enjoyed it. I was in poet mode in my teens and 20’s. Don’t really know why I got away from it, but the road back is never closed, is it?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Indeed it isn’t. once the words flow theres no turning them off.
LikeLiked by 1 person