Winter

a white sheepdog silently beckoning

calling his flock to follow

covering the blue sky and the summer sun

with the dingy gray of their wool

a gardener

blustering through clothed in gray and black

angry he still deals gently with his plants

giving each an icy coating

then forgets them

and brusquely

noisily

bitterly

leaves not returning forsaking them to their fate

a silent woman draped in chilling white

heavily burdened with her baskets of crushed ice

wielding her willow-bough broom

she brushes her burden across the streets and yards

smiling to see the children laugh and slide

she passes on

then comes the wind

from lonely icy planes she sweeps down

not understanding her own cruelty

even the sheep in the sky shiver at her

but I know she is waiting for me

to slip silently out of my prison

and come to her

to receive willing

the message of pain

she has brought:

for me,

there is no spring

(In defense of my teenaged self, please bear in mind that in Texas the first frost releases all the mountain cedar pollen, which made me sick. Constantly. It's hard to be cheerful when you spend most of the winter (and spring, and summer, and fall - I'm allergic to everything that grows in Texas) not being able to breathe)