Frozen Charlotte by David Estringel

Skin, blue,
like mistletoe berries
under her midnight sun,
she sways and hums
to the tune of fireflies
in flight
and whispers upon the wind
through bare branches.
Night’s chill rests, warm,
upon bare shoulders
in want of cover, but
the anima
and blood
are numb to Winter’s sting.
So, she dances,
the wreath of Spring,
long fallen away,
beyond crystalline grasps
of icy fingertips
(or loving hands).
silent and still—
a night heron frozen, mid-flight—
she turns, slowly,
to me
and the offending glow
of yellow lamplight
on bedroom walls (reflected in my eyes),
until thoughts pull her
in cold procession
into the taciturn embrace
of Night’s song
and that baleful moon.
And so,
she dances,
unknowing (uncaring)
that she’ll be alone
for the next thaw.

Originally published in Cajun Mutt Press

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