by Shannon Scott (C) 2015
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There goes the lumpy woman.
The one with the plum, polyester knee shorts.
Brand new Reeboks and bruises dark.
She doesn’t walk or run, but rather hobbles.
Nature’s lark.
A disintegrating machine.
Getting back into her shape of nothing.
She is something new somewhere else.
She is something new here.
She is all she has.
More noticed from a balcony than on a street.
The shoes fit better than her feet.
I watch her from here but we will never meet.
When the moneys gone, love and luck have run out.
She may become you, she may become I.
No doubt, no doubt.
I still covet this work as one of the best I’ve ever done. Long ago I met a person on my road to a higher self and learned much about visiting a world where I did not belong but fell for their Siren call. She was all 3 of them in one body.
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She was the ice queen. A boreal beauty. Bearing love formed by tiny crystals, shimmering silver, red and gold. Fracturing light into rays spectacular. Storing the warmth of the sun in all her parts.
But only to a specific degree. For ice is ice. And some goddesses are frosty indeed.
Her ardent smile could freeze you solid, but left your blood running lukewarm. Her febrile words were a fireside invitation, but to the inside of a frigid room. Her burning eyes could melt you to a puddle, but found you bathed by gelid water. Her pyretic touch invigorated cold skin, but leaves your love frostbitten.
Yes, the ice queen can only be warmly admired and never handled. Her wintery land does see the sun pass and set, but there? Spring and Summer are but seconds and not seasons. Only what is born there can inhabit her artic domain. Her kingdom is enchanting, but for warmer creatures life there only promises pain.
Travelers like thee will always be her curious. Opposites attract as opposites will be. Momentary fools maybe, but in the end, her destiny divides.
For she must find someone as cold as she.
For ice is ice. And some goddesses are frosty indeed.
