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Poem

Passionflowers winter-wilted and passionless,
twining around the treillage of a wintry world,
winter-weakened, flower-frail in the ice-vice of cold's hold.

Ice-ivy creeping and strangling; a crunching and grinding like sharded glass
beneath boots, around roots, an unearthing, uprooting, a tugging, unaware
of track marks vine-twining winter-pale arms. Every street corner a trellis or snare,

stems/limbs overexposed and bare, petals loveless, neglected and crushed,
long since fallen and gone. Plucked/f****d fallen flowers, dropped and discarded.
Polar touches on skin stamen-thin, clematis-veined

stems bending and breaking, lifelines buried beneath snow-weighted winter.
Blizzards tearing off tendrils one by one. The groped now groping,
hankering for anchoring, fruitlessly reaching to cling to a trellis of care,

to wind around whatever support they find, the little that's there.
A frigid fondling and fingering, gelid entwining and fusing, naked and numb
flowers forced open before or after their time. A scarlet staining,

seeping of sepals, a bedding and shedding, a shaming.
Moonseeded moans on glacial winds, aching and echoing,
emptied into the emptiness of one more indifferent morning,

rejected, discarded, no stems/arms strong enough to hold
the cold at bay, or keep the frost-frail flowers intact
as they fall in a secret and silent shattering.

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