by Amy Miller
Photo by Geneva O’Hara
Winter lady lives in time,
aware but unafraid of that hourly chime.
She smells of cigarettes and tea,
hums Cohen under her breath.
She walks street after street
with the sun to her left.
She speaks of ancient tropes
like xenia and hubris,
keeps herself on the ropes
and bows down to the muses.
She never stops moving,
hair swinging at her back.
She’s done now with proving
what she does or doesn’t lack.
Winter lady lives in time,
made sure by the stars that all will align.
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