A Man of Green

A Man of Green (Valentine’s Day) Blast breathed, bob booted, fiercely tramping, he sweeps down upon the land, hard browed, frozen white, bellowing, Rude Boreas, the prince of winter, rages, the very rocks withering in his path, his power ultimate, the cold of Satan his liege lord, spent upon the hapless world, in frigid swales, twixt tortured trees, in winter’s scraggle, midst hilltops bleak, whose hoary frames becrack an icy, kindless sky, His profound frost’s depth hints that light could lose. Mortals shudder, birds enclose themselves, becoming smaller still. All pray this prince shall soon pass. In earnest fright we take small, guileful hope in his raving’s crystalline wake. Yet, ‘neath his glacial countenance, the rime bedecked adamantine glaze, the polar beard, there glints a hope of green, A brownish earthen smudge warms at alabaster nape. Perchance brightening Boreas’ stern eye’s crystal spark of winter, there now gladly grows a fleck of Sol.