Infused with flames on frosted glass,
Encased by sheets of liquid brass,
These tiny rattles snap and crack
Like leaking sap in campfires cast.

Now over every veiled branch
A glitter glaze reflects my glance,
As though the wood has turned to steel,
A molten, liquid satin feel.

A breath of air burns white like heat,
A tingling bite within my feet,
Invokes the thought of white-hot coals,
But for the northern wind that blows

Across this frozen land of flame
In spite of frigid fingers lame.
The winter ice storm seems to burn
With every slip on every turn.

Donald E. Felch
February 2004

This verse is the original creation of Donald E. Felch © 1998-2004, Jezznik
Publications.  It is not to be printed, or distributed electronically, stored, 
transmitted, posted or shared through any means without the express written 
consent of the author.  Receipt or possession of this written work does not 
constitute permission.

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