Garden Parchment

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,

patterned

the chocolate road

with powdered sugar.

Emily Isaacson