The Snow Angel: Poetry

Weary of oblivion,
the Crone's footsteps halt
in the sanctified forest;
Each tree wears
Winter Splendor with
aging, silent grace

She spies the tracks
of other travelers
like long departed ghosts;
Yet she sighs with relief
that her own must end,
for she can go no further

Her heart falters amidst
the reverent beauty,
already dying;
She scans the heavens
kissed with the
promise of evening snow

And she falls there
on the untouched hill
amid those last beats,
spread out in the pristine
white of nature,
a snow angel to the last.

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