The Queen of Winter

When the leaves ash and the sun retires
As dark-tipped birds cross the threshold of forever
Sometime between when the moon speaks
And the quiet clouds open up to sing
And the chill air rolls across the glen
Between the charcoal black touch of burnt fingertips
Around and about the uneasy stay
Of northern light and comets
She will stand at the edge of tomorrow,
Holding fast her chariot of snow rabbits
Until they will conquer the world
With icy smiles and frosted glee.

2 thoughts on “The Queen of Winter

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