The intolerable cold wind had sprung out,
obliterating anything on its passage.
The hours Spent outside felt more extenuated as you walked on.
It wouldnt be long until you'd feel your own audable behaviror freeez -
but vanish.

that day in December
my roughest trip started
i remember how we met
i sat there quiet
you moved closer and said
my name was pretty
you left but promised me
next year again
and i waited for 365 days
but you never showed up

until 3 months later
and you almost forgotten
but i sparked your interest
November was the best,
when you first held my hand
and never had i ever felt so safe

little did i know that was the last month
we'd ever meet
and i would be hanging on for
193 days
on a feeble rope of hope
losing grip of myself
while you slowly forgot
how i felt against your hands

the rope snapped then,
but i knew
i was free,
from the difficult mountain of you
i did hurt and bruise when i fell
but those scars only proved to show
i am standing stronger
ready for the next adventure of life

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.

Pearl swans shatter
the ice,
and glide swiftly through the
stars sparkling
on the mirror lake.
Twilight falls to the night
and the air
creates glistening
twisted crystals which climb
up the trees and freeze
the antique summer remnants.
The spindled sprigs of silver
birches drape their lustre
wantonly, forming long
ripples in a lengthy cascade.
Then the darkness retreats as
the pale blue haze of dawn approaches
where the robin's breath
sighs tangibly on the air.

april cut into the city
in long fingernail scratches
of running water and suddenly brown gardens
and the air fell heavy onto the eaves
of houses eager to open their doors

i stepped out and spoke
into a space filled with spring
just trying to hurry things along, i guess
trying to warm the air
trying to clear the path
trying to make some sense of this transition

i stepped out, leaned forward
and spoke
too soon, i guess
because the mercury sank coldly back into the glass
and the rain became needles, the trees thread
threatening to sew winter back into the sky
and the air retreated back
into a dull winter chill
as if afraid of my open chest
displaying december's frostbite
and january's cold words

and i apologized silently
to the city and myself
for thinking winter could be defeated so easily

Spin-off of November by Thomas Hood*

White field-- white snow!
Everything withers--nothing grows!
No flora-- no fauna--an ice tundra where no one goes.
A ghost of a memory-- a vivid flash of pain
Vision in white-- not a thing to see

But no, hidden--where could it be?
Kisses, hushes, heard in the dark,
the world is different you see, when white covers bark.
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No trees--no leaves
December.