her fingers a wax-like fog between posts
slipping silently beneath hills and hollers
she's a teaser in a sheen-like fairy light
as she meets her gentleman callers.
she's not too kind with her hoarfrost breath
freezing our feet, our toes, our fingers
our licorice-red faces observe a wintry death
though our love for her fragrance lingers.
an angel-train drifts and wanes beyond reason
passing through her snow-filled frail forest
our mud-coated boots marking a new season
leaving behind the tales of mere mortal men.
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