Death GripA Poem by James PaulinWinter to SpringDeath Grip Icy fingers clench tight to land and lake grasping air itself with white winds screaming horizontal, blowing an Arctic jet stream of biting bitterness. Farewell kisses of Indian summer and first frosts faded or forgotten as January’s rhythmical bell pounds a repeating knell of winter’s long march. Cold blasts emanating from north and west flash freeze February. A clenched toothed grin of the old man’s stiff smirking brittle blue lips boasts dominance. Constant tension rarely varies except scant respites, odd timed thaws enticing embattled survivors with sun to savor as another approaching chiller constricts. Almost imperceptible, continuous change combines longer days with hopes of softening spring zephyrs, loosening a stone locked grip into a gentle parting wave. March vacillates, April reincarnates dead, dried plants in an annual miracle of natures command to renew and replenish with warmer, tender embraces
© 2009 James PaulinFeatured Review
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4 Reviews Added on May 31, 2009 AuthorJames PaulinMIAboutAfter 38 years of working as an automotive design sculptor, I retired and have been doing a bit of fishing and writing poems. I've gotten better at both and had some recognition. Most of my poems are .. more..Writing
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