“Within the Arms of Winter”

White winds whip through arctic valleys, laced
in the fallen blankets of winter’s regime, sending naked
tree branches dancing and reflecting the
brilliant shine of the moon overhead.
This setting serene, a shallow brook bubbling amidst
the greater limbs reaching from it in both directions.
I see you near the water, protected from the elements
in dark attire, a long coat clinging to your
frame and your hair visible
from underneath your woven cap, admiring
the essence of which you stare.
You’re beautiful here,
as you are no matter where you may be.

I try to watch you from afar, but the rugged foliage
of this albino scene keeps obscuring me.
I shift, trying to not make a single sound as I admire
you and wish that it was you watching
me instead of the half frozen water trail.
Do I dare alert you of me?

You pivot slightly, your gorgeous familiarity tilting
to your dominate side dexterously, as a vapor trail escapes
your lips, potentially in sigh.
You turn again, facing the same direction the water
is going and the sounds of your boots imprinting
the fallen winter dominate my ears.

When you are no more than a few feet projected, I collapse
on my ambition and liberate myself from my hiding
place, sprinting toward you like an Olympian.
When I reach you, I find that you are not there, nor
are you anywhere, for that matter.
All that stands beside me are the cold ashes of frost
amongst the rocks and trees, and the visible steam
emanating from my mouth agape.
I turn my attention to every direction, in wonder if you
may have detoured and I
had just not known of such a maneuver.
Yet you have now, and the sights and sounds of December
are all that I have of my most beautiful hallucination.

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About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
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