Winter The Eccentric

Winter, for all her stark chic, is a secret hoarder. 
She has a thing for extremities.
We ward her away with gloves, warming socks, impervious boots, snug hats.
She is horribly curious and will crawl inside your chest to look around, sliding cold through your damp lungs.
It is best to keep skin under thermal surveillance.

She makes water-glass, for looking in, in spite of the fish gaping below; yet for all her thievery, her stealth of trespass, her vanity, she marvels us.
She is her own kind of beautiful, as is all true beauty.

Without her, the grate has no fire, the hats and gloves are dropped, unappreciated.

Spring’s bulbs push slow roots through her iced ground. Perhaps she nips at fingertips to feed them. Winter, like a mother bird, raising her cuckoo.

Pity is superfluous.
She is made of universal stuff: present in all seasons.


Yes, yes, yes or should I say oui, oui, oui! I just loved this Lisa and wish that I could share with you the smile and nodding in recognition that reading this produced. Thank you...
Cherdo said…
Best lines:
"Pity is superfluous. She is made of universal stuff: present in all seasons."

Love it!
Lisa Southard said…
I can imagine it - it's the best thing about words, that recognition- I get it from your writing too :-)
Suze said…
My word, woman. Magnificent. My arms and the skin on my face is covered in gooseflesh.
Lisa Southard said…
A good rub of shea butter should sort that out! Says I, flippantly- what I mean is Thank You :-)

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