There was nothing trivial about her life
though the sing-song neatness of her speech
had waned and left her pale
as wintry sunshine.

She lived in the past
and traipsed through gravel paths where
weary heads and hearts await the
Rapture and Hereafter.

She spit quotations from the Bible,
was Protestant to the core,
had a keen discernment which wasn't without
a lack of inward fire.

She retained a shade of coquetry,
yet emeralds suited her
more than purple amethysts.

Those quiet and tender agates
fed her eyes little fountains of pure color.

Avalanches carved by wind fingers
send gusts ghosting off roof cliffs
swirling down to vanish
among strong drifts of white.

Gray tatters hang at noon
and past hidden sunset
day passes without a hint
from heaven to give away the time.

The rasp of snow blowers
kills crisp silence, while cars crunch by
and SUVs play chicken with ice witches,
hidden under innocent facades.

A long-needled pine, standing sentinel
catches a flurry, thick flocking,
drops with soft-heavy thumps.

Icicles jut like jagged teeth,
open mouthed to capture
tender snowflake treats.

I thought of you again today.

You must have touched my shoulder
like a feather resting on a stone.

I shuddered.

Not in fear, but in a wish
to see your face that I looked upon
but once, in an early morning haze
of tears.

February brings memories
so small and quiet. You did not cry,
although I prayed. The color
of your eyes remains a secret.

Your wings unfolded in my arms
and in that minute
I had to let you go.

If time was liquid
I would pour myself
that day;

fill the glass with you

and never drink.