Winter's Maid Poem by elysabeth faslund

Maids of Spring, Summer, Fall...
Sleeping, tucked cozy under bowers.
Dreaming, waiting awakening.
The fourth sister, Winter's Maid

Treads on barefeet, daintily, laughing.
Ah, she is a pretty thing, palest of hair,
Skin...tinsel-colored eyes...
A touch...last color from leaves, fades,

Trunks greyer, air chillier, grasses brown.
Squirrels flick tails in warning. She smiles.
With one foot, she tosses leaves aside, a bare
Patch of ground. What's this? Looking around,

She takes things from her robe's pockets...
Sprinkles them on the ground. Covers
These with leaves. Laughs...knows
Her sister, Spring's Maid, always thought

It was she...never
Winter's Maid.