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Summer's queen no longer fair
wears yellowed leaves in tangled hair
silver spider webs adorn, her faded harvest crown
the living green, now sadly tinged with spots of bramble brown
she wears a faded perfume the fragrance of last year
it smells of sweet foreboding
that Autumn may be here
his hands
are firmly wedged
inside pockets
unwilling to risk
exposure to this
frost-coated morning
if he tripped
or slipped
even then
he would not rely
on their numbed support
he could not trust
that they would do
what was necessary
if called upon
deep in the sherpa-lined
abyss of his coat
his fingers remain
protected in gloves
clenched and wriggling
with all hopes resting
on a return
   of warmth
   of bloodflow
   of feeling
before he gets home
before central heating
   and chill-blains
turn his frozen tips
into scalding rods
when there is
no use but
to desperately
and ironically wish
that he could not
feel anything
at all
Brian Turner Dec 2022
Iced leaf
Like a candy peal
Sitting upright
On a frozen morn

Iced pond
Grass caught upright standing still
Blackbirds frantically seek food
Squirrels bury nuts for later

Iced gate
Someone has been here
Opening it
To start the day
Notes from a frosty UK morning
CIN Apr 2022
There was a certain comfort in the time I spent
Sitting against a wall outside in the cold
They don’t tell you what its like to freeze to death
But here’s what wishing you would is like

The trees sway with another chilling breeze
There’s a little stinging pain in my toes
Its been about 20 minutes out here
My feet are the only things cold
I'm thinking
Way too much about how the frost feels
My hands become red
a little icy itch not quite numbing my fingers

Another 20 minutes go by and I can feel the cold travel
I have no intention of leaving
I don’t want to
Maybe i’ll stay all night

An hour in my feet are cold on the outsides
My ankle is freezing
I adjust my earbud and look up to the sky
My breath can be seen in the air
I think about my mother finding my body
Bitten blue with winter

2 hours in and my feet are starting to ache
Its an interesting feeling
Almost like I’ve broken a bone but can’t quite feel it
I don’t want to be here anymore
Not outside, id love to stay in the icy air all night
But here, in front of my so called home
Filled with my so-called family
I’d like to be staying somewhere else
Somewhere where they aren’t
Somewhere where the people who care about me
Are all far far away
And if I die, they know in a few days
Not right away
If I’m sick they’ll send a gift card
And call so many times I’ll have to turn off the phone

So maybe I’ll just sit here
And let nature have its way with me
Because I'm not ready to go back in
And live in a “family”
More about the night i overdosed. I'm falling back into this mindset and its drowning me.
JKirin Feb 2022
Frosty air, crystal laugh.
It’s unfair, when a puff—
a white cloud—is allowed
to break free. I don’t see
why it would ever wish
to escape. So, I kiss
your chapped lips to hide,
to keep
the puff
about love
Seven Nielsen Dec 2021
Winter bows his grisly head
when the trees bend low
Branches bear the heartless weight
of the ice and snow

Ponds turn into frosted glass
and diamond streams to jewels
Rivers turn to mirrored roads
and lakes to sapphire pools

Echoed cries of banished fowl
plead for hopeful spring
Not until the March wind blows
will the warbler sing

Winter's night of cold and dark
slowly turns to day
when the glaze and snowy drifts
gently melt away

New spring lifts her waking head
when the sun grows neigh
Buds and blooms unfurl with joy
reaching for the sky
Written in celebration of winter upon discovering a large branch on my property fallen from the weight of December snow.
Dave Robertson Oct 2021
hedge haematoma
blue-black against the fading,
once young green,
bruising for sharp winter thoughts,
clean frost lines,
untouched snow-blank focus

but before, to swell and drop
in the last pale suns,
feed the field mouse, rabbit
and endure the muds
topacio Sep 2021
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost

And so i waded at the fork
in the woods and recalled
these oft-repeated words,

i aimed my shoes to the left
for this was the road
that was undoubtedly
less traveled

but i hesitated and my thoughts
turned to "conformity" -
the merry subject
at poem's hand.

for although the thick
brush was denser
on this part of land,
i could at least understand

conforming for uncomformities
sake was in itself ..
a conformism,
and the real
unconformity was uniforming
yourself to you.
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