is poison,
bitter poinsettia,
thorned holly,
even the mistletoe,
dangled to draw
a kiss,
would fell
a stout heart.
But we taunt
the barren cold
with tales of
rose-cheeked maids,
sweet lips
beneath green boughs,
as if it might
convince us
that the brightness of winter
isn't a taste
of death.
(c) 1999 Susan Paige Shoemaker