The icicles hang down,

hard white caps dripping

slowly to sharpened points,

nature’s needles

from the coldest chill,

the sky gone blue,

blue from loss of oxygen,

graying in a hazy mist,

gray in lifeless splendor

edged in arbors stripped

to the bark and standing

at attention with their arms

stretched towards heaven,

marking the path where

dark orbs faint with gold embers

like specks of diamonds in coal

occasionally glimmer in

the moonlight revealing

snow covered lips spreading

gently open, inviting her to come in

then quickly pressing against

her hot young flesh the injection

taking into itself her virgin soul,

fresh from the hearth and home,

seeking meaning to a hidden desire

conjured in their first meeting,

a casual glance igniting a flame

within an untouched furnace,

pushing her to follow this figure

to the old covered bridge where in

the frosty grip of winter

as the clock strikes a New Year,

the seed is planted,

and Her Spring begins.