All night, the wind whistled and blew. The small house shook occasionally but stood firm, a strong rock amidst the swirling, rushing snow. When the sun’s first rays of light began poking through the clouds and darting across the land, the wind’s howling quieted to a whisper.

The girl peeked through the window and smiled. Swiftly, she pulled on her long winter socks and brown, fuzzy boots; tied a soft, red scarf around her neck; and slipped her fingers into a thick, snug pair of green gloves. Then she bounded outside, eager to explore the winter wonderland.

it wasn't long--
maybe five or ten
minutes--
before the words
tumbling in my head
started trickling out

little pieces of
the weather,
the pulsing
in my aching feet
a trickle of something
--perhaps--
inspiration
that fragmented against
my teeth

1. Feet

Feet that move
down the path
do not think
daily about the
purpose of their
movement
until the day ends
and the tapping
of busy steps
subsides

2. Winter Walk

world of white:
white sky
white ground
white whirling through the air
white noise

trees, houses, cars
sprout from the crystal earth
muddy tracks
mar the pristine beauty
poofy coats tuck in their chins
and hurry on

sun sets
moon rises
sparkling beauty returns
deep blue sky
studded with stars
invisible obstructions
coated with glitter
artificial lights
rising heavenward
in golden spirals

beautiful world

I had a dream that we were walking
down riverbanks of ice.
My feet were slipping.
The snow had drifted high.

Then I woke and I'd been sleeping
underneath the deep snow
deep beneath the white snow
buried in the sweet snow
up to my chin.

Then I woke and it was just the blankets,
warm and home, in bed.

I listened to the songs left over from the summer,
from when I was at the sea:
all those songs I had in my head
back then.

And I can't decide, sometimes
if I would rather be here, or there--

<I was taking a walk by a lake near my home, watching the small pools of water lap away at the edges of the ice, when the words 'slow little ice-melting trickle' popped into my head. Here's the finished product. ~L.W.>

The slow little ice-melting trickle,

Liquifying that haughty stone,

That stands in cold white defiance,

Ignoring Winter's call to her own.

Angels

Float in the air

Dancing in the gray

Siing Lullaby's

I name them

One by one

Noel

Faith

Hope

Cadance

They feel so alive

So real

It get's darker and darker

The stars luster in the twilight

I'm about to go sleep

I decided to put them to bed

I put on my snow boots

and hurry outside

I capture the angels

In thin air

Just as I'm about to tuck them

Into the snow

They vanish

My heart crumbles

Tears start forming

~This could easily slip into my nonsense poems, but I though I'd post it separately.~

I look at me and see
the nonsensibility of complaining.
I remind me of a bird
that scolds spring for damaging winter.
“You break it, you buy it,” I shrill,
ruffling my wings.
“Ridiculous,” spring replies.
“The world looks better my way.”

       Bitter wind was tugging at Adelaide’s hood and lashing her hair round her face. She was sitting in front of Lawrence on a grey warmblood. He was plunging through the deep drifts of snow at a great pace and smoothly passing over rifts and inclines of the land. Lawrence had both hands on the reigns while supporting Adelaide by his arms.  The saddle on which they sat was large and made of fine leather. It was black and simple but strongly made. Adelaide had both her feet secured to the stirrups by straps that Cosmas had attached.

     The voices were burly and rough. The chairs were squeaking across the floor. Plates clattered and water was being poured. The heavy collapsing of men into chairs threatened the floor.

     Agitation twitched in their voices; fury rose in their tones. Adelaide could distinguish six different voices. One was bawling over the rest in a thick voice.

waking up you see
sitting on a snow-covered tree
a cardinal, red and warm

his beak is yellow
his eyes are bright
he ruffles his feathers and takes flight

father frost blows
on your window pane
with his pattern, leaves a stain

all the trees
look like glass
but there's an emptiness

snuggled up under covers
not wanting to leave you bed
you try to get out, but jumping back in
you huddle up and sigh

you try again; you shiver
you put on your slippers