My Writing, Poetry

Lady Winter

I touch the tip of my tongue

and taste the frigid air.

White winter snowflakes

fly around my ears.

Winter boots crackle

the cackling ice.

I think twice

about running, but I do anyway.

My legs are stiff boards

of wood, slipping

on icy blue sheets.

I could fall through at any moment.

Is it wrong to taste snowflakes,

let them melt on my tongue?

Is it wrong to lift my foot

and shatter the ice,

make shivering shards scatter

and expose the ancient cold

beneath my feet?

Is it wrong

to taste, to stretch out and take

a girl by the hand and 

twirl her, swirl her,

make her believe she can fly?

When we were children,

we patted our mittens,

hardening balls of snow and gravel;

extra points if you hit the head.

Snow in my ear;

I can hear winter calling, 

her voice sweet as syrup.

Sometimes I shiver in the middle of summer

and I wonder

if it’s wrong to feel her touch

when the sun shines?

Does heat warm the heart

or melt it?

White fluff clings to 


pines and sap covered in frost.

I was the summer child,

a pocket of heat,

my mother said so,

but I was born in winter,

crying, screaming, calling,

my rosy nose tiny and red,

my fingers closed in neat fists,

already squeezing the icicles,

the etched designs in my palms,

each new snowflake a unique print.

I yearned for the sun, but

I was born into winter.

She delivered me with frigid hands,

held me close to her breast,

whispered, It is not wrong

to love the cold.

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash