I sat on the rock,
With the statue of Robert Frost,
And thought.

I laid on the stone,
With the metal cutout of Emily Dickenson,
And cried.

Like a sweet hymn of orchestra
The wind blew and the night was soft
Pearly snowflakes falling gently
into a winter land

She walks out of the house
with her gleaming eyes
Her blonde hair drifting in the wind
while the white dress clings to her
like an artic flag,
basking in the fine hour

She looks up and sees the snow falling
down her face and hands
And she searches for warmth, her arms stretched
toward the frost-bitten sky

Slowly dancing and spinning
Following her own rhythm
A silent poinsettia garden, blooming
Tracing the shape of her tender smile
That was warm in the midst of winter

Autumn warmth
and rusted leaves hide
the shrouded chill lurking high
in northern lands,
mustering its icy warriors
to creep down in the night.

Keening winds gather dark clouds
about them cloaking the moon and stars
and with furtive breath ****,
the warmth from all about.

Icy blasts ravage the tired trees
as crystal flakes
cascade down from heavy skies;
beautiful, dancing nymphs
misleading my sight
numbing the air,
reaching out to every
crack and cranny.

They gather higher and higher,
blown into dark corners
climbing to my window ledge
as frosty tendrils slink down from the roof,
twining down my window pane
obscuring the outside from my sight …

Then, as morning’s pale light
oozes in through tight closed shutters,
I open my door onto a strange
and barren world:

all that was ordinary and familiar to me,
through verdant spring
and hot high summer,
to autumn’s parade of golden hues,
is lost to the white shroud of
Winter’s Creep.

© 2010/2012

My fox of the hedgerows has silver white fur
a sleek and dangerous cunning cur,
nails like needles, teeth like splinters
I’ve heard him howl these many winters

Alone I stand barefoot on a floor of broken glass.
Two doors across the way in front of me.
One door leads to my salvation, the other quite possibly damnation.
Though neither door is marked, it's true they are unremarkably the same
The choice for me remains all too clear.
Smooth glass on the left, sharp and twisted to the right
I take a breath and step upon the path, blood pouring from my feet.
The pain is somehow sweet, for I see the blood of others gone before.
Persistence in spite of pain brings life's greatest gains, and I smile as light floods through the opening door.
I took the path less traveled as old man Frost would surely agree, and that less traveled path has made all the difference in me.

I recall the day I first saw you, amid the frigid depths of winter, as I sought even a trace of warmth from the sun. My gaze found that warmth in you. When you drew near, you stunned me, clasping my cold hands in yours, imbuing them with warmth. I remember, too, the day I waited in that same chill for one final glimpse of you—only to be left, forsaken, my hands still cold, yearning for the warmth you once brought.

I would be this gentle mist that lingers
On autumn’s flowered field—
Yet I wish I could be a golden sunbeam,
Painting my lover's lashes in a gilded haze.
But that is not me. With gentle kisses,
I **** the summer’s flowers;
I am the coldness they fear.
I wrap the earth within my arms, but blind its sight—
My love summons winter’s night to arrive,
Stilling the pulse of all that once breathed life.
I swear my love brings death to every chamber,
But maybe that is the price we’re meant to pay.
For love and pain have always been entwined,
And when we bleed, as everyone must one day,
We will bleed as one.

-Sonja Kettunen (ig: @sojafoxpoetry)