For Mrs. J. White–rather late I’m afraid.
January beckons from across the year-divide.
She is strong, and she pledges herself to the bold.
She is not easy. She is no tender bride,
But her charms are deep; her dowry, rarest gold.
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January . . . conjures up images of the old Norse myths. Or perhaps the North Wind in MacDonald’s story. The wild woman with her hair streaming behind, sinking the ship. More there than first seen. Thank you, and keep writing!
January is the long drop off the edge of December, and then you hit February, and in the last moments of your winter consciousness after the impact, there appear the ambiguous eyes of March.
Thank you for the encouragement!
what form is your poem? I don’t recognize it.
nice wording,and personification too.
Awkward form, isn’t it. It is no formal form, only an overwrought improvisation. Thanks for asking; I must go back to learning the forms founded by the fathers.
Almost a year.