How cold the hand <br />that clutches winter <br />by its tail. How warm the heart <br />whose eyes fall upon <br />their first hoar frost. <br /> <br />Diamonds bigger <br />than the testicles of kings, <br />hang from white trees <br />where silver slithers, sliding <br />along each branch. <br />Necklace twigs, <br />tiara topped <br />and dressed to kill; <br />a total fantasy <br />of jealous jewelers... <br /> <br />who, could <br />never ever match <br />nature's shimmering Gala Ball.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hoar-frost-2/
