Boreas, the headstrong God of Winter, is unwilling to renounce his hard-won dominion against Apollo. The ballads of black birds falter unmistakably against winter’s bittersweet kiss of death.
The globed fruits fall one by one
and the grass musters its energy beneath mounds of snow.
The trees and bushes all don translucent mantles
like a revelation of Claude Monet’s infamous Snow Scene at Argenteuil.
I am the lone ice prisoner weighed down
by an intangible, burdensome quilt.
My body falls back into folds of despair as I have learned to work, survive, and trudge under the quilt.
The penetrating slices of ice and gravel
pierce my pale, callous hands.
The deep gash in my head is a reminder
that the paved, icy road always takes victory.
I want to half crawl and slide backwards,
humbled by the powers of ice and gravity.
But if I were to, I’d fall captive to Boreas,
and Apollo must make His return for my frigid flesh.