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Winter MagicJack Frost arrives,
his thousand or so pixies,
giggling and cheering.
Each one carrying
the tools of their trade.
Magic paint brushes,
and fine tipped pens.
they begin their work.
Painting the thin layer of frost,
on cars, trees,
and even blades of grass.
A starting canvas.
Others take clouds,
fans and pens in hand,
drawing the flakes
from the fluffy easels.
Gently they send
the finished projects to earth,
creating the gentle blanket of winter.
Covering the earth in
pristine beauty as it sleeps.
Quick as they come,
leaving only their work behind.
WinterHer cold hands trace the lands spreading pallor;
In their wake, antique lace of crystal ice-
Scrimshaw tracery of pale frost flowers;
Tears a fickle flurry from fragile skies-
But bitter is her wintered breath the wind,
And ghostly the sound of its satin sighs;
Blue-veined deep the frozen lake of her skin;
Her voice a swansong of icicle lies-
Skeletal spine studded with evergreen-
The sheen of her shimmering white-wove veil
Crowned with holly bush and poinsettia leaf;
Her eyes drowning blue, her skin ghostly pale.
Winter Poem...Winter comes spreading its soft white blanket,
covering everything and everywhere with sparkling snowflake diamonds,
shining in contrast with the metallic gray skies above...
[transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
to weigh down
into leaden eyes--
i am the
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of your
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
and dead altogether,
i still die.
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