If Winter Were a Dress

If winter were a dress,

and the fall—its seamstress—

I’d spend the best of autumn trading

gold-leaf cents

and flecks

of penny-rouge

for the slow,

unspooling webs

of star-spun lace

and diamond-thread

that nip my thin,

stripped limbs

and whisper-hiss among

the drowsy forest’s edge:

scriss, scriss, scriss…

there, I’d wonder:

Could the brief, resplendent ending truly love me?

And as the thought unraveled into

earth’s last ardent breaths,

I’d trace the fragile,

fallow veins

of foliage as

ice feathers effloresce—

dazzling ferns

of beaded stitch

and crystal-quartz with such

unhurried,

measured imminence, I—

would shift

and drift upon

the brumal playgrove’s

brittle twigs—

my bare feet on

its thistle-stem,

its frost-bite gems—

like this,

I'd dance

and flit amid

the first fine dusts

of pine and angel-scented snow:

crisp, crunch, crisp..

inhaling not finality,

but the epiphany

I could be

a silhouette of heaven.

And O, I do confess:

I’d forage and collect

dewdrop-jewels among

my timid,

fae-like footsteps just

to decorate

and co-create

my opalescent,

pearl-and-mirror-glint corset—

ever hoping

wishing

dreaming (all) in secret I

was beautiful enough to wear it close

and fitted to

my paling,

prickled skin.

O, dear Winter Solstice—

what I would give to have a filigree of glass reshape

my supple,

velvet hollow—

to taste the kiss

of the Snow Moon’s lust for me

upon my waning harvest’s tongue…

.

and while the autumn ebbs

and dwindles 'twixt the lilt

of fleeing geese

and birdsong’s farewell sonnets—

all fading into embers now,

and sung—

.

I would wear the winter as

my wedding dress (if I)

should still be young—

if I

should still be beautiful enough

to be followed toward

beginning’s sweet perfume of spring.