Hoar

Bareness, once cold, is now leaden,

The stripped trees trembling

As you take them and entomb them.

Let me, you say.

You will be transformed.

Trust me.

What choice do they have?

There is no shield of resistance

As you enrobe,

As you come and come and come.

Arms raised, they are adorned,

Their immobile grace their weakness.

You are brutal and heavy in your touch.

You clutch and encase

With tiny icy spikes.

Starkly, trees glisten as the Sun spots them,

Curiously enquiring of the branches

And the thickened trunks:

"What are you dressed in today?"

Preening, you prostitute yourself

To his weak, misty-eyed attention,

Ice sequins glittering over nature's decline.

Light splays on white, shining

Like torchlight on a marble tomb.

I, the peeper, am charmed too.

Captivated by your presence.

The purity of paleness

Has landed like a suffocating shroud.

You look so good, my eyes dance

And my imagination fizzes

With white; clusters of white;

posturings of white, augmentations

Of white.

And like nature, I have no choice

But to succumb

To the beautiful hoar.