All tarnished iron and unpickable locks,
this day that winter has on the march
sends me ducking and weaving to my store
of unfinished verse.  Short passages vibrant
with color and light.  Crisp consonants
and slippered sibilants. Big, round vowels
and murmurring m's.  Little nothings
with ideas bigger than their stomachs
dance with prissy types in fancy dress.
A mirrored ball glitters above our heads
as I race onto the dance floor to twirl,
dip, twirl.  Got a feeling that when I go out,
the sun will be in hiding, still.  Cold still
harden and thunder still threaten, and I
will be happy to go back in.
 

      (c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  2013

[Original title = Some Pretend to be Snow Angels]