Prologue To Spring
A frozen winter’s chill hangs in the air
Icy landscape under a cold clear blue sky
Frosty branches point skyward accusingly.
The cold brittle air catches in the throat
As if it is about to break in two as
Winter casts its frigid cape all around.
The golden leaves of autumn are now brown,
Crumpled underfoot, or turn to wet mush
Beneath the bare trees standing like sentinels.
What can break the spell of winters grasp?
What magic can turn the season around?
Or is it better now to hibernate?
As frosty air rises over the lakes,
February is such a cruel sad month,
The heart of winter, yet a prologue to Spring.
In memory of Sylvia Plath 1932 – 11 Feb 1963
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