winter.

oh, that winter can be so lovely.
though the trees have been stripped of their leaves
and are looking quite humorously naked
in the midst of all those handsome evergreens;
and my beautiful tulips seem gone until spring,
the air is fresh.
snow has long forsaken this small corner.
though the ground is frozen hard,
the sky refuses its torrents of powder.
i'll have tea and buttered toast, and sit pleasantly
by the big window, wrapped snugly in a blanket,
having hypothetical conversations with Anne Boleyn
and Catherine Howard.
there are those who would storm in quite angrily
and rebuke my sanctuary.
and smile i gently, never understanding
the morbid pleasures of the wicked and the weak.
and steam will float contentedly from my tea
and tickle my nose quite precociously,
like so many prayers uttered in times of peace.
and i may look up, and see soft peals of white
flurrying down in the greatest of hurries
to clean the ground gently- melting upon touching
the wicked earth. next will come spring, it's sister
with rains and poppies, to turn about our melancholy-
but for now, winter.