Here, in this December prison,
Blizzards blur the view.
Icy winds slap
Snow against the frosted face
Of glass, where cold blue lips
Press flesh against the pane,
And even the sound
Of her own name
Can't insulate
Her from the enemy.

She has memorized the cliff.

A slash of the soil,
A gash in the ground,
Earth banked up fifty feet
On either side-a wound
That won't scar
Over smooth stones below,
Where cold blue
Lips against the shore,
And even the lap
Of waves can't drown
Out chaos below.

She steps outside.

Here, in this December prison,
Blizzards blur the view,
Icy winds slap
Snow against her frosted face
Of glass, where cold blue lips
Press against the pain,
And even the clutch and grab
Of snow can't keep her
From the edge.

She steps out.

A slash of the soil,
A gash in the ground,
Earth banked up fifty feet
On either side-a wound
That won't scar
Over smooth stones below,
Where cold blue lips
Press against the plain,
And even the swirls
Of snow can't blot out

A white sheet black with blood.

Help Spread the Word

Want to foward the information on this page to a friend? Click the Winter Storm, by Chuck Baker page link now for an easy way to e-mail your friends a link back to this page.

(Please note this link opens in a new window, so please make sure your pop-up blocker is deactivated.)