"Winter Mother"

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My mother was born in winter

on a solstice, when nothing grows,

in a meadow covered with a hundred day's snows.

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She was born out of a rose bush

all thorns and dead, in an icy birth-gown,

while great hailstones spattered down.

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Her cheeks were frosty, cold

porcelain stained with blush,

ghostly breath passing through lips red and lush.

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A mean wind blew streaks of sleet in her hair,

turning the thin strands into a series of silver crescents,

while her body and her mind laid dormant and quiescent.

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Snowflakes one by one danced down,

gently painted rounded hips and pallid arms

so that no man, no god, would resist her charms.

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Then her frozen eyes, colorless,

stole the heather hue of the brewing storm clouds,

and the first breath stung her lungs, gasping and loud.

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She has ate, slept, breathed,

and lived, and died,

with Winter by her side.

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My mother is this myth my mind created—

I never knew her. I dream of this winter woman over and over,

so that although I may never know my mother, I have loved her.