By: Linda M Crate

cool winds
soft snow
it seems perhaps i was wrong
to liken you to winter
it isn’t always
harsh,
you are;
sharp always as the thorns and thistles
that catch upon my flesh and my
skirts as i run reckless
in the wood
sing with the wolves and fly with the
birds;
sometimes softly winter whispers
‘forgive me’,
and i wonder what he’s repenting of—
it seems i wrong to liken
you to winter
because at least he apologized
for his wrong
you never did,
and so i sit here seated on the trunk
of a large felled tree
wondering how long a person can live
in denial until they break;
you ought to have shattered by now,
but perhaps you’re hearty
as these trees who only bury their leaves in snow
never dying simply because it’s
cold.