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
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