The Dead of Winter
The winter witch whistles in the moon
her voice smells of storms, of pepper and lye.
With slithering paws, a drowsy raccoon
digs a hole in the sky.
The winter wind howls at the wolves
their skins dance with joy on ravenous bones.
The sun is then buried and shadows of ghouls
crest the sky with a moan.
She sang with the voice
of a champagne glass
and then picked up the jagged notes
left in the ashtray like the dead butterfly
she had once seen
on a lady’s finger.
She opened the chocolate box
only to find two moths embracing
with black sugar wings
and singing of the times when
the Queen of Hearts
had a King.
And then she remembered the dress
hanging from the tears of time:
white lace, untouched, un-groomed
She sewed it to her chest with a sigh
and thus remained