Winter does not empathize
with withered branches
or displaced birds fleeing waves of
of frozen breath.
Her howling wind is a laugh out loud and
she hasn’t the grace to cover
her mouth.
A tease of holly and evergreen
flicker at the curve of  billowed thighs.
Glistening folds of hallowed mounds
drift in other worldly sighs
ensnared in her exquisite binds.



Karol Bak


53 thoughts on “She’s Not a Lady

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