Frostbite

frosty oats

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.

 

 

Lines

pansylines.jpg

Your world covers your lines

in high-powered ad campaigns

that promise forever young

in a bottle,

the fountain of youth at a cost;

but swallowing emptiness

cannot fill canyons.

In your lines,

I trace the conquest of first love,

baby bottles and funeral baking,

losses and gains

multiplied by loaves and fishes.

No serum

can replace the living

drawn in these lines –

this is no paint-by-number

out of a box,

but an original,

a hand-drawn facsimile

of you. So hang out your laundry,

put it all

on the

lines.