Poll: Who goes through?
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View poll results: Who goes through?
0 0%
3 50%
2 33%
2 33%
Voters: 6.
Multi vote. Top one and ties go through.

Grow an oak tree in your backyard; you'll need it.

I remember that giant oak by the river with its
daily winter coat. We made snow angels around the ancient trunk
so when the sun shone, maybe they would
survive in the shade. We ran and played games
with made up names, let our minds free to wander
under the shelter of the placid snow-capped giant.
All was calm, all was right.
All was silent, O' silent night.

We'd wake up in the morning to
make some more snow angels and
marvel at the deer tracks left in the fresh snow,
and do everything all over again.

We needed it. It kept us sane,
those days spent under that tree.
For a couple months out of the year,
that tree was our refuge and we were its refugees.
And when it was all gone,
when we were forced back into the routine of our daily life,
we just hoped and prayed that we stored enough
happy memories in those snow angels to keep us
in our heads until next December.

So many people don't even have a tree.
Everyone needs one.

we thought
(you hoped
i prayed)
if we tilt our heads and squint our eyes,
maybe the dying ashes would start
to fall with the grace of snowflakes
dancing on the sleek attire of the frozen lake,

and the prickle of the stabbing heat
springing out against the icy night
would start to
and harden into the ivy ring
around the moon.

and maybe
maybe the distant
would be nothing but the whistling wind
singing carols to the choir
of frowns, slowly trembling
into smiles

around the fire
oh, the gently crackling fire...

and as smoked filled our lungs
our minds were somewhere higher.

Winter, Crimson on the White of the Snow, and the Meaning of Christmas in Prosopopoeia

She came for me when the air was crisp
and the land was sparkling,
and the snow fell like tiny thorns
which jabbed at my fragile skin.
The trees were naked
and they glimmered lavender
against the winterscape.

I remember winter. Mother’s angels
wrapped up warm to keep off the cold hands
of the villainous Jack Frost.
Scarves and bobble hats of various colours
contrasting against the snow.
Snowballs made without feeling
before the outing to the show.

She came for me in January.
Tore the cancer from my throat
and the breath from my lungs.
My heart skipped like a lamb in the spring
before I knelt and froze to the earth.

A young girl was raped on my grave
by the man who helped give her life.
She cried as she shivered
and her tears trickled over my bones
and her screams were drowned out by his hand.

Overcome with a grand delusion,
he cut her throat with the top
of a frozen puddle, blood spraying
over my headstone and into my name.
She lay as limp as I had before,
crimson on the white of the snow.

She came for me in midwinter,
hair as black as a raven’s back
and eyes that would freeze the sun.
She took not just my life
but that of the young girl,
and left us there on by one.


Finally the frost
came down the long hills.
Roads named after numbers,
clambering home for christmas.
restless but warm
a hazy window candle
still a shiver in the sheets.

And lonely on the mountain
dim in the distance
an irreplaceable glow
that falling snow
that western skyline