The sky is bruised and heavy, a sagging, woolen gray,
But the crystal lace of winter has been washed and swept away.
The eaves don’t wear their icicles like jagged, frozen teeth;
Instead, they weep a rhythmic pulse on the sodden grass beneath.
The thermometer is climbing, a fever in the glass,
As the ghost of Jack Frost shrivels while the humid shadows pass.
It’s a glitch in the old machinery, a tilt in the frozen pole,
As if we’ve traded the diamond frost for a burning lump of coal.
Think of the man in the crimson suit, the saint of the permafrost,
Watching his blueprints vanish and his cooling bills exhaust.
He’s traded his wooden runners for a hull of polished steel,
Swapping the silent, snowy glide for the splash of a hydro-wheel.
If the North is shedding its armor, and the white is turning blue,
Even the magic of the pole might find itself falling through.
The "naughty list" is growing long; not with lies or stolen toys,
But with the soot we’ve pumped into the air that every flake destroys.
The reindeer are confused today, their hooves are caked in mud,
Expecting drifts of powdered white, but finding silt and flood.
The chimney tops are slick and wet, the soot is turned to slime,
A soggy, warm reminder of our borrowed, heated time.
So St. Nick checks his radar, where the storm fronts swirl and bloom,
Seeing less of the quiet blizzard and more of the gathering gloom.
He’s checking the carbon footprints now, instead of just the shoes,
Knowing that if the ice caps go, we’ve all got much to lose.
It’s raining in December, a soft and humid sin,
While the North Pole waits for a winter that forgot to settle in.
No comments:
Post a Comment