Turn not this beauty from your skin,
Do not deny its wintry kiss;
This touch of trouble deep within
Has brought you to the brink’s abyss,
Where self is laid on frozen shrine,
Blowing chaff from every cell,
Sowing strength in every line,
Birthing beauty honed by hell.
Frozen fingers point, accuse,
indict the earth for all her crimes;
frozen hearts in Trouble’s shoes
hear the fear in Memory’s chimes.
In a world where Winter reigns,
a Narnia ‘neath wicked spell,
who but Spring’s Son breaks such chains,
melts the shackles of such hell?
Left hanging,
she freezes –
stiffening, like last week’s laundry
on a frigid line,
struggling to find her equilibrium
somewhere between
beauty and broken,
free and fettered,
heaven and hell.
Torn between Reason and Hope,
which way
will she swing?
