In Winter, with its scenes of white, is when I met the fear one night.
That first time that I met the fear, I had the feeling of something near,
Crouching just behind the way—a feeling never felt in day.
My heart grew steadily in decibel as my knees grew weak and bothered.
I just stood there staring down upon the form before me, slaughtered.
The crimson blood cut through the snow beneath the moonlit pines.
A victim, yes, but to be true, was not a prey of mine.
There was silence when the wind would stop, but that was rare the case.
Once when it did I shivered though, and tried to hide my face.
My heartbeat pounded in my head. I felt it in my throat.
No scarf for her, no shoes or shirt, no culottes, cloak, or coat,
But glistening in the silver light, a trinket caught my eye—
Two teardrops made to form a heart, within it, “Love May Lie.”
A Poet’s Qualm 