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Day left with the summer,
winter's night is queen,
her icy dresses flaunted in the stream,
her starry lights the beacons of our dreams,
she freezes mirrors for her toilet,
decks the trees in graceful sweeping skirts,
her hair the gossamer of frosted lakes,
their wandering mists that rise into the weakened sun,
low slung among the firs,
her combs that card the heavens with her curls,
her toes reach deep among the roots,
her blossoms grow on twigs like crystal flowers,
her song an eerie wail among the pines,
or howling dervishes as she reaches full disguise;
on sunny days all twinkling crisp and cold,
her diamond tiaras deck the tips of woods,
while rivers with each stone its own white belt,
some full of foamy bubbles, while eaves drip icicles,
her weapons piercing snows,
her retirement welcomed, yet she's loathe to go.  

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 


I love your poem sigh an I love your imagination it never fails to inspire me, hope your doing well

nothing more to be said except it took me away for a minute, thank you

love and hugs JC xxx

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

So happy to inspire you dear Jayne, that must be
one of the gladdest thins to be able to do in life,
I am privileged then. Thank you.

Love Ann

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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