Snow white on the ground,
the hunter drips red,
skin translucent fades in flakes,
melts, there’ll be blood
in Springs of roses.

Alabaster purity, but what
of twigs of brown? Red earth
lies fecund, yellow forsythia
flowers in the mud pristine.

Cloud reign, subjugation,
the turning of umber planted fields,
black gold rapes greenery, crude
feasts at the court of public opinion.

Black Christ has blue eyes,
his story whited out, re-written
by the conquerors, the page is blank,
white vellum throwing off all hues.

And white becomes grey,
covering the colors of Earth,
plowed under, they cannot grow,
reign washes deep, a drop chain
binds, ivory gloves hold the keys.

Ice, snow, the Winter
of sallow cheeks, cold for years
and years
and years,
but Spring comes slowly,
oh yes, Spring is bound to come.

©2012 Rose Aiello Morales