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It could have been the snow-heavy
God...god of brief glincings from
Icicles, octagonal tapestries...
Creeping to the window, gaining
Dim light, somewhat of warmth.
Not too much, now.
What if this god abhored the power
To eternally remind us of months of
Deathlike dormancy...
If you watched carefully, you would
Have seen his death...out your window.
An ignoble death at the hands of a
Young maiden. A virgin...a child
Gathering first blooms of her new
Reign.
A murdering child, innocent, wide eyes,
Hair piled in golden ringlets.
Coy, child-woman, slaughtering the old
God...with a virginal promise, 'All is well.'
Melding with disaster, killing winds...
Her crystalline laughter is still
Coy.
All revel in her greenery, sweet spring
Air...dancing on the lawn, picnics by
Still water.
All will forget, as ever they have...
Their sweet Spring Virgin is an
Unabashed whore...
With a stiletto.
elysabeth faslund
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