Winter’s garden, with its glittering stars, icicles, and frost
became the evening where we gazed into the sky.
Shine, earth, shine
with icy furor
at the evening of my soul,
and the end of my life.
For I have lived many a year,
and now I have turned white
as the winter,
my hair of organza wreathed
with dried papery roses,
wrinkled as a frozen parchment
beneath the snow.
The last frost I saw
kept the colour of a leaf burgundy,
and iced it like a cake ready for the tea,
the sky was dark and tumultuous
as Earl Grey,
the clouds were my line of teacups,
striped, flowered, and fired pottery,
the falling snow onto my lace doily,
the chocolate roadwith powdered sugar.