A tangle of wicked winter - - more ice than snow, more branches than sky. Frigid mists that have taken up permanent residence in the shelter of the forest. The sunless days are bland, monochromatic, void of color. Winter white.
Sightless phantoms gather in the dead of night to ride on ice-encrusted gusts of wind, and shriek with devious laughter as they shake the timid house and rattle thin windows.
And I yearn for the rescue of a spring that never comes, the impossible promise of rebirth and rejuvenation. The salvation of blossoms and leaves lingering on an unattainable horizon that taunt me with the possibility of a thaw, while I shiver in a prison of ice.
Jon, shivering
in a poetic mode
