The Cold of ’92
Winter hits with a bitter hand
on this plateau.
Slate sky, ominous with
snowflakes, thick and wet
or icy chips.
Dangerous underfoot.
It snows again here.
While down South, fatigues
climb white washed hell to
save sheep.
Tiny flakes fall on and on.
We sit around a fire.
Laugh and eat ugly pink cake
and sip bubbles.
It’s late and outside
dark canvas lets stars
pinprick light through.
Trees dusted with icing sugar
A powder snow
covered garden
This harsh place where
men are trained to kill
Has a beauty even
to my grief reddened
eyes.
“…ugly pink cake” is where this got personal for me – that is, that detail made me really see the narrator. It’s such a contrast to the broader description of the scene.
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment, Christine.