Winter Girl

Fair as open snow,

hair on fire like sun-hit copper,

smile wide and toothsome,

—something that always scared her teachers,

she grew up in the cold,

where lips turn cranberry in the frost,

snow lets out a steamy breathe

and fans out her powdery dress,

about to dance the dance of wind song

in the arms of the gray sky.

She was not like the other girls,

viciously beautiful,

a white tigress

who could walk barefoot through the snow

with a smile on her face,

ice-burn mellow as satin on her feet.

At night,

she whisper-walked down to the graveyard,

ghost girl of snowstorms yet to come.

Here she tip-toed on graves,

hummed something in the deepness of her throat

that sounded of winter’s husky moan,

conjured the skies to sob thick,

globby tears,

just like hers,

this winter girl,

whose mama said her heart was made of ice,

whose wet eyes were icicles

sharp as wolf’s fang.