she’s not a lady


does not empathize

with  withered branches

or displaced birds fleeing a wave of

frozen breath.

The howling wind is a laugh out loud and

she hasn’t the grace to cover

her mouth.

A tease of holly and evergreen

flicker at the curve of her billowed thigh.

Glistening folds of hallowed mounds

drift in otherwordly sighs

ensnared in her exquisite binds.

Art by Trudi Doyle

124 thoughts on “she’s not a lady

  1. I love the way your wonderful descriptions support the title of your poem. Winter is exquisitely beautiful at times, especially when she dons her sparkling, silvery white gown. But she can be extremely harsh and unfeeling: no lady at all. The image is very beautiful and so suited to your words.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I must come clean and admit that I detest winter. Which is why I have just moved from Ohio to NC. It rained today, but there was no snow. My geraniums are still blooming on my balcony. I will happily leave winter to those who love it. Hugs, Barbara

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I haven’t seen snow in a while now Barbara. Not since I live in New York and that was a number of years ago. I always find my way back to the sunny south. Still, I remember being locked outside on a snowy night in Germany until I was rescued by my neighbors. I’m with you on this one…I love the idea of snow but from a distance. Hugs!


  4. Wonderfully passionately cold-hearted.
    What does winter empathize with, if not the withered branch which she wilted?
    And a devilishly wintry woman never covers her mouth as she scatters her teasings,
    certainly not amongst her billowed thighs and hallowed mound.
    I fear I might chase after her, though not risk my frozen heart,
    instead to wait for the safety and green spriteliness of her spring.

    A passionate and inspiring and titillating poem.


    Liked by 1 person

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  8. Sie ist keine Dame

    ist nicht einfühlsam
    mit verwelkten Zweigen
    oder vertriebenen Vögeln,
    die den Wellen gefrorenen Atems entfliehen.
    Das Heulen des Windes ist ihr lautes Auflachen und
    sie ist nicht so gnädig,
    den Mund zu verdecken.
    Ein Necken der Stechpalme und immergrünes
    Flackern am Bogen ihres wogenden Oberschenkels.
    Glitzernde Falten geheiligter Hügel
    driften in jenseitigem Seufzen,
    gefangen in erlesenen Fesseln.

    Liked by 1 person

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