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July- The Perfect Time To Write of Snow July- the perfect time to write of snow;
other than climes found at poles north and south
most of us soak in this heat, sticky,
so hard to beat,
so why not feel (so what if not real)
the sting, the cold; Oh, how the white flakes blow...
I set my mind free (brrr..this is neat!) escaping the heat to feel.

What does ninety-two mean? Is it a year?
(Yes, long gone, I fear), but contextually here,
a degree.
Eyes closed, ninety-two means nothing to me.
Encrusted trees fence, hemming this white barren field
my mind is now in-
A step, a plod toward yon trees with ice glistening at me.
My first crunch as my boot smacks the expanse- punch!
Crusted layer, the melt and refreeze,
through quick as you please
my boot sinks now, down, down to the softer yield
of autumn leaves darkening, feeding earth,
working toward spring in the cycle
of death and life
the loss of snow brings.

The frozen still air I breathe deep-
an icy blast intake, lips wide and bare,
red rimmed nostrils aflare as
my lungs heave in the thrill.
Ninety-two gone, blown away in the travel
to this white dancing light field of chill
where heat has 'ere a trace left-
only snow padded paw prints of this fields guests.
I'll add mine to the fox and deer, (and why not?)-
rabbits to fear size twelve muck boots, impressive spoor-
Furry friends! No fear, I'm just here for the cold- nothing more!
No need to be alone, I suppose-
perhaps with eyes closed we can meet,
you and I.
Ringed in this spellbound enchantment of snow and ice-
Eyes open here-
a chuckle to share between me and you,
Smiling wide with vaporised sighs
How we escaped that sweat drenched land of ninety-two.

Title

Topic

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Language:

Authors Notes

Poem Text (html)
DO NOT remove the line break <br /> html coding at the end of each line break, these are needed to form the correct lines.

July- the perfect time to write of snow;<br />
other than climes found at poles north and south<br />
most of us soak in this heat, sticky, <br />
so hard to beat,<br />
so why not feel (so what if not real)<br />
the sting, the cold; Oh, how the white flakes blow...<br />
I set my mind free (brrr..this is neat!) escaping the heat to feel.<br />
<br />
What does ninety-two mean? Is it a year?<br />
(Yes, long gone, I fear), but contextually here, <br />
a degree.<br />
Eyes closed, ninety-two means nothing to me.<br />
Encrusted trees fence, hemming this white barren field<br />
my mind is now in- <br />
A step, a plod toward yon trees with ice glistening at me.<br />
My first crunch as my boot smacks the expanse- punch!  <br />
Crusted layer, the melt and refreeze, <br />
through quick as you please<br />
my boot sinks now, down, down to the softer yield <br />
of autumn leaves darkening, feeding earth,<br />
working toward spring in the cycle<br />
of death and life <br />
the loss of snow brings.  <br />
<br />
The frozen still air I breathe deep-<br />
an icy blast intake, lips wide and bare,<br />
red rimmed nostrils aflare as <br />
my lungs heave in the thrill. <br />
Ninety-two gone, blown away in the travel<br />
to this white dancing light field of chill<br />
where heat has 'ere a trace left- <br />
only snow padded paw prints of this fields guests.<br />
I'll add mine to the fox and deer, (and why not?)-<br />
rabbits to fear size twelve muck boots, impressive spoor-<br />
Furry friends! No fear, I'm just here for the cold- nothing more!<br />
No need to be alone, I suppose-<br />
perhaps with eyes closed we can meet,<br />
you and I. <br />
Ringed in this spellbound enchantment of snow and ice-<br />
Eyes open here- <br />
a chuckle to share between me and you,<br />
Smiling wide with vaporised sighs <br />
How we escaped that sweat drenched land of ninety-two.<br />

Please note in this textbox below that this poem has been edited, do not put your name, please put as the following:


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