She, who is
green with envy
at the animus of Autumn,
the animus of Winter,
those seasonal destroyers
who can kill living things
with just one touch…
She, who is worshipped
in the form of May poles
and fertility gods…
She, who
holds the seeds
of new beginnings
in her tears…
She, who wants
to destroy as badly
as her brethren
but is cursed with
a nurturing nature
that is written about
in almanacs…
She, who is
so blinded by her green,
forgets that she can also
plant a sapling
in the crevice of a boulder
that will one day
split that boulder in two…
She, who can
spin Spring storms
that spawn fingers of sorrow,
that swell rivers that give birth
to drowning waters..
She, who always will be
the face of grace and provenance,
has a wild streak
hidden in the folds of her clouds,
a deadly charm
to her golden smile.
| Kurt Newton‘s poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Space & Time, Eye to the Telescope, Star*Line, Spectral Realms, and Penumbric. His collection, Songs of the Underland, was published last year by Ravens Quoth Press. |  |