Freezing chills

and snow-showers.

 

Still green bushes turned

– out of blue –

into a kind of winter fairy tale poetry.

 

WHAT A CRUEL TRANSMUTATION!

 

The erstwhile flowering life

still visible under its icy armor.

Still smelling its used-to-be perfumes.

 

So difficult to leave it nothing but vanishing.

Hopelessly detached

from what now we call just

 

ONE-TIME BEING.

 

So difficult not to cry over passing beauty.

To give up.

Simply.

 

In doubtful chance of future resurrection.