A Gentle, Melting Giant

The sweet snow creature 

Lies dying in the mountains.

His name is Winter.

Though he tries to be gentle,

His frosty breath

Chills the bones of thin old men,

And pierces the soft, lumpy hearts

Of infants. 

He watches elementary kids

Sledding down hills of melting slush,

But when he tries to help 

And leads in one of his

Pet strom clouds,

The winds are too strong,

The snowflakes too sharp

(Like brittle throwing stars),

And he only manages

To chase them away. 

So he follows them home,

Melancholy,

And stares with frozen, blue tears in his eyes 

Into their windows. 

They don't want to play? 

No. 

They have golden strings of lights,

And a crackling hearth,

And mugs brimmming with hot chocolate,

And soft sweaters,

And old music. 

They have no need for him. 

When he cries, and rubs at his

Weeping eyes,

It rains cold and hard,

And the highways freeze over.

People swear at him, and curse him.

So he withdraws, sometimes lingering,

Hoping,

But they swear all the more. 

Now he lies here

Amongst the bitter, lonely peaks. 

His heart is slush, and is it leaks

It mingles with his tears.

A mama bear and her cubs

Waddle by,

And he lifts his trembling head.

Company?

No. 

The bears only sneeze and waddle away.

He begins to melt in earnest. 

His icy arms fade.

The strength of December

Drains from his crystal bones. 

Rivulets of crisp, biting water

Join together

And drip off the mountainside. 

Streams and creeks become swollen

With the lifeblood of Winter.

The streams feed more streams,

Refreshing secret pine groves,

Cooling the throats

Of young bucks,

And giving a home to slippery,

Silver minnows. 

The streams grow into rivers.

Great, rushing, bulging rivers

That gush with Winter's blood. 

Lush green meadows

And towering aspens and cottonwoods 

Thrive. 

Spring gasps to life,

Her eyes fluttering.

She laughs and soars

On an apple blossom breeze,

But she tires quickly,

And bold Summer takes her place.

Winter watches from his rivers,

And wallows in his shallow pools.

The sun hurts his watery eyes. 

Does no one love him?

Can he bring joy

Only in death? 

He sobs alone, in some sunny

Forest creek. 

But, then,

A little girl comes wandering down,

And sits with her legs in his water.

She plays for awhile and then says,

"Daddy says this creek is just

Last year's melted snow."

She scoops up the water

In her two hands,

And leans down to whisper,

"Don't tell my mama this,

'Cause she hates the cold,

But

I think I like Winter best." 

Next Christmas,

The girl gets more snow in her town

Than she's ever remembered having. 

Her mother shivers, but smiles

To see her daughter giggling

With her cheeks glowing pink.

Winter smiles, too.