A poem from Therese: Into the Wiles, of a Care-Takers Winter

Into the Wiles, of a Care-Takers Winter

Need I say more, as the cold blasts through the window panes.
Rocked hull, called house, that banquets in frigid's sorrows,
Care-taker of fountains, wind-swept bleak into agonies,
Rose bush tender, do you drink the wine?

What chance is heat?
Where forbidden icy rains, tart and trickle away,
each days new dreams,
lost to the flails of abuse,
from another dedicated French winter day.

What dessert am I tasting,
under this dragon wind
of banishment.

Oh No, little Winter Warrior,
do not ever play to tame this France.

It lives to underpin your comforts,
remove you from your equities
and destroy your eloquent beauty.

Ban the Chancer,
who dangles, heavy carrot-ed keys of keep,
"For Winter also, and it's not too Steep."

Care-taker, sweet tender of the roses,
quiet partaker of the wine,
why harbor 'neath, nature's wailes,
as it beguiles its torture
and further sends gales?

Ah, to roof and provide?
of course,

"My house then, my house, can you tend to my house?"
Young shy, of innocent fancies, called care-take...

Never tell her, she will drown, under it's weight,
Covered sky, winds of relentless own,

Cancelled dreams, it will be a past-life for her,
no more will she know, the pleasant and the fun.

After her brow's been beaten,
by the French Countryside that won,

whether, she lives near,
or whether she lives far,

She will only ever be
without her vibrant sun.

A Dark-sorrowed self,
kept place called heart,

a woman cheated,
by nature's ego,
brutalized, disheartened and done.

Therese Vaux de la Fontaine