Ere long, the North Wind’s Kiss
too soon will come.
Her constellations gather
with joyful anticipation, for
her Kiss
brightens their stars,
and drapes them in all their
celestial finery.
The fleeing sun trips, and
drops its light.
Extinguished now, and
shows its belly
to the freezing night
that savages, with cold fangs,
its crimson carcass to
warmer climes.
She smiles, and betrays us with a kiss.
The red blush
of berries and cardinals’ feathers
hide
the treacherous blue
of her
frosty lips.
Around her,
a cloak of virgin snow
trimmed with
crystals of ice.
In one hand,
a bough of evergreen,
the scepter
that bows not to the
bitter wind,
her chill herald.
She comes in all her
dread and fearsome
Majesty
to drive us to
our hearths,
our blankets, and
our graves.
And lays
another tender, loving hand
across the seeds
of
Spring
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Beyond Panic 