Marching in to Arctic drums;
Promised gift of spring succumbs
To ghosts of winter past.
Ice Queen reigns supreme for now,
Frigid frost on frigid brow;
Soon, she’ll have to take a bow,
For phantoms cannot last.
Her tears roll swift –
hot harbingers of head-aches to come,
they puddle-ize her.
She fears that if they keep falling,
there will be nothing left to call her own,
no stamp on her collar to remind her
whose she is
or where she came from
or what she should call herself
at a party.
But tears are
to a seasoned Collector,
they are mermaid-magical,
gathered lovingly in a bottle
When store is sufficient,
they will be returned,
potion powerful enough
to reconstitute the Walking Dead.
So cry, precious heart –