It was anger,
Nature bitter and ignored,
Until finally a scowl and rage.

A blizzard of infinite pellicles,
Pure white confetti flakes
In a hoard.
The storm attacks me,
A cloud of locust,
In their swarming phase.

I was blind.
Even before the harsh wind,
Slapped me hard across the face,
With an open hand.

There are gentle days,
Summer days,
When the wind is a scent,
Fresh cut grass,
A tired smiling sun droops west,
Soft lips on my barked skin,
Memories of each and every day.

I think of her,
Only when winter grows bold,
Its icy ***** mocks me,
Assaults me
With six foot high drifts
A smooth white finish,
Seals all the land.

The storm buries everything
Hides the summer trails,
Until the deer remember the way
And tip toe towards the river,
Their footprints tentative and light.

Then I think of her.
In winter.
When all seems irretrievably lost.

Then I think of her.