By: M.E. Berthiaume
Winter roses come before the dawn
Red on white, along the slender stem
The press of silver thorns into soft, crimson petals
that rest against freshly powdered sheets
melt away, drifting down,
A whisper stirs, gasping in frigid air.
a shudder, and then–
an empty vessel fills,
and I am naked,
a stain upon the snow.
by: M.E. Berthiaume
She dips and turns a graceful neck
and glides in silence o’er the pond
N’er making a stir to waken the frog
that sits idly on his pad awaiting the day
or the stag in the mist, head down,
broad nose under the world,
nudging his own reflection forward,
She ripples the skin ‘neath his nose
like the gentle kiss in the touch
of the snow falling on the heather.
She passes by to nowhere, nor why,
urging him to lift his head to see beauty pass
and begin his day as though it were his last.