Winter
WINTER
I met her at the half-turn of the stair
where shadows meet,
and caught the fullness of her breath
before she was aware.
Sculpted to stillness in the window-light
she stood, and folds
of frosted dawn falling about her brittle form
covered her quite.
I moved, she fled, and on the closing pane,
drifting her hand,
printed curling fronds of ice,
fern chrystalline.
I met her at the half-turn of the stair
this winter-maid, with snowflakes in her hair.
Mary McKeone rscj
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