The aftermath of an angry winter storm can sometimes be a beautiful thing.
Anger is a freezing rain
that turns a night to hail,
rage, a whipping sleet, disdain,
a distant banshee’s wail.
And after such distilling pains,
their loss, like fingernails,
tears the mind, tears the will
drains the eyes of all their chill.
After the icy wind maligns
the fragile, shaking eaves,
and sheets of snow-glass form designs
on shingles, stones and leaves,
layered morning comes benign,
its color starts to weave
a deeper shade, a deeper mood
a deepness where the dolors brood.
After brutal night recedes,
a brittle, frozen waste
remains, and low, frail, ice accedes
the warmth of day as chaste.
A melting then does supercede,
as anger to disgrace
breaks the heart, breaks the pall;
a thousand broken crystals fall.
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