Winter Blue

By: Anyssa Q. E

What is snow, so sweet and pure,

But frigid monuments at your door,

Plant of death and insecure-

Birches bending in the breeze.

The arctic tongue so white with haze,

Infects these blizzardous, firgid days,

When  the sky no more than a pale bone,

and even the woods seem

to bend and drone,

With the powerless disease 

of being alone.

This hauled heap of frozen pearls,

This silence that uncurls...

What is snow but Winter's blues,

Frozen monuments at your door.