April 8, 2008

Winter Wonderland is buried
beneath the ground:
a hell infested with worms
(they starve for the remains of a soul)
with the solid soil as its wall
(around, around, up and down) –
ground and soil and rocks.
It is cold; it is freezing
(there is no sun).
It is not white, the snow.
It is dark, like old blood
(dry and cold and deeper in its red)
that should have been keeping
the wilted flower in bloom
(but it is withered, it is dead).

Winter Wonderland has a face
hidden from the living:
(like the shadow of the earth)
bugs crawl through its eyes and
nose and mouth and teeth tainted
by age and decay
(how long since it muttered a word
off the flakes that were its lips).
Tendrils of its hair intertwined
with the roots, bringing no water –
but still, nourishment to the living
(because they live).

Winter Wonderland has lost
its soul (it had one, once,
when it still felt sunshine open the
bareness of its skin – now just
a crust of the earth and nothing more)
and when you call out and say,
“Winter,”
(soft, gently; do not shout.
It hears its name wherever.)
somewhere it responds,
“Yes, this is Wonderland.”