It was the time of cold.
The water from the sky ran black as inky blood
and the tree in the dark storm was ripe for burning,
solitary acolyte in a serpentine ceremony of snow.
You kissed my summer dry palms
just before you ran to your winter white pack
far off along the indigo rim of night.
I heard the howling begin
without me. I pulled in the last syllable of stone,
stripping myself to bare words. A single step danced me
from maenad to anchoress, peering through the squint
at your unconsecrated communion.
Having nothing ready for tonight, though a huge snarl of cantankerous works in progress, thought I would post an older poem that had limited exposure. This was originally submitted for a prompt (at the now defunct Big Tent Poetry) to utilize alliteration by choosing a letter, writing a word list, and using the ideas it generated for subject with a word from it for the title. Apologies to those who have already seen this.
Photo: © Copyright Colin Smith and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons License.
Cell of the anchoress Christine Carpenter, 14th Century. Shere, Surrey, UK