The cold snapped, overlapping summer’s season,
Seeped frigid blue into my limbs, made stiff—
Even as it crimped the garden grass
Where futile floral efforts lay brittle.
Chilled mist cracked voice each time
I breathed, breaking hymns to God in half;
As I skipped stones across the lake—
Now a mirror of ice which proved me old,
With no more summers left.
©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.
Advertisements which may appear on this blog are not endorsed by the author.