11th February, 1918:

11th February, 1918:  

The heavy spirit-yard bell gongs noon. 

My sister runs lost, a-mazed, in giant tea-towers, 
dripping molten tears upon iridescent ice. 

Each Firey bead melts a trap for our wayward doppelganger;  

She chases Muses 'cross Time, storms Centuries;

tosses teary Lakes, beneath hoary, frigid blind Mounts

 I seek my purloined key

My sister screams,
her voice flailing like a waif upon a chill embalming breeze,

"Frigid white princess, who moves upon your barren wedding bed, 
Union of Her Love & Her Fury? "

"Life lies beneath the Ice, my frazzled dear!"  

replies the Mother, her voice, a too-distant wail on Wind.

Frigid frozen phantoms stalk milky murky memories, 

watch her wild wind walk, reach to feel her.

She feigns blindness; they fall to slumber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Help! My doppelganger runs amok, rambles insane Winter metaphors on Twitter! We are still not connected to the Net...I must find her!)