Piebald, perhaps, or bicolor,
she’s a yinyang squalor scholar,
transparent and two-faced — well set:
One side crystal, the other wet.
She can’t tell. They’re the same inside.
But one eye glitters and stares wide
while the other just trickles,
one solitary drop, fickle
and silent. Her ears, not much use,
one frozen shut with cold abuse
sports a stunning sharp stabbing point,
while the other melts and anoints
her neck with a shrinking tickle.
Don’t shine sun on the icicle,
you’ll mess up her hair if it melts.
The long sleeves, high neck, hide her welts.
Pumice & polish the glacial
cheek, and carve the floating facial
grimace into something serene.
No rouge, no color, just a sheen
highlights the curve. Almost enough.
Hoarfrost gathers into a muff
beneath her chin, clasped with grey pearls,
snowy threads in spiraling whorls.
Oh, now she’s got it — calm and still,
a whisper to abate the chill:
“As I now lay me down to sleep,
I pray my dreaming eyes to weep.”