OF GODS AND QUEENS

The sun caressing grey slate roof tiles,
glimpsed through small gaps in frost adorned window.
And how the cold penetrates clean to the bone
like the icy probe of some alien biologist.
oh yes, winter has invaded with a vengeance.

But where is our snow?
"Too cold for snow," my mother would state,
believing the clouds to be frozen solid:
a skating rink for the Gods, no less,
whom I strained my eyes in vain to behold.

Our garden reclines in shadow now
that the sun skims exclusively the rear horizon,
and everything that lives in this gloomy hollow
defers to the Ice Queen, resplendent in white,
with a hushed and reverent stillness.

Nostalgia wallows in it's own recollections
of sun-trap garden on July days:
the Summer Queen all draped in red roses,
her heady scent lingering on the balmy air...
in skimpy bikini, I'm lying on the frosty lawn.