Prelude to the Frost Winter is not coming. Within our embrace, I see only tulips. I feel only the warmth of your skin and the rough stubble on your jaw as it brushes against my cheek. Your blend of sweat and aftershave transport me to a peaceful place where we recline inside the woods intertwined among the branches. Winter can’t be coming. The brisk wind was unexpected but I’ll consider it a gentle caress instead of the harbinger it was meant to be. The violets are looking a bit pale. I think I forgot to water them, but I’m sure we’ll be just fine as long as I hold on tight without smothering the morning glory vines. Winter won’t be coming. Not as long as we hold our heads under the pond’s murky depths as the crickets chirp and the robin’s sing and the toads croak a misguided lullaby. The last time we came up for air I thought I saw a snowflake but you wrapped your arms around my waist and I became distracted once again. Now as we wander through the sunflowers I begin to wonder what this means . Is the fortress of our affection lasting or is our spring a dream?
Tiffany Renee Harmon is a poet and artist based out of Cincinnati, OH. She has an MFA from Lindenwood University, and her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Poetry Quarterly, Page&Spine, and Third Wednesday. Learn more about her at www.tiffanyreneeharmon.com.