An Angel Carved

It’ll be summer
Until we hear
Her sing again.

She wears a crown
Of ice and mist
And her hair
Sits crisp with frost,

But fear not,

The icicles hanging
From her angelic pout

Will whisper
The holiday winds
One day soon,

Trust me;

And those
Cold, stony eyes
Will usher life

Under moons
So clear
You could swear
They were silver,

Just wait for two seasons
And rattle.

She has stared
At this small town
For centuries

And a hundred
Harsh winters
Won’t stop her,

Hear the
Drip, drip, drip,
As she lies there

And know
The seasons
Are nothing
But chatter.

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