Gathering golds, reds, and browns,
making mountains
just to tear them down.
Stepping twenty paces back,
admiring.
Suddenly lungs struggle
to pump the cold, crisp air.
Legs gliding,
feet barely touching the ground,
ejecting from earth.
We are superheroes.
Nothing can stop us,
but winter.
Crashing down
like a plane losing an engine,
creating chaos in the clutter.
Trapped in a net of leaves
hearing them crumble beneath.
Launching them into the air
watching them glide
like butterflies
much more graceful than I.
Icy wind pierces,
ripping away my fortress.
Wet snowflakes fall on my face
sticking to my eyelashes.
I turn to you for warmth,
but only find
frozen ground
-Mary Poth
Mary Poth lives to write and to travel. Her adventures inspired her first novel-in-progress set in Iceland. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. She has published a short story, play, and poem in Shoofly Literary Magazine. She resides in Northern Virginia.