Metamorphosis in the cold

The coo of the morning dove,
With the glisten of winters grasp,
From above must seem an auspicious dream-like trance,
A wedding of the earth and sky,
With diamonds conducting
The first dance as the horizon breaches,
And breaks like glass disintegrating;
It reaches, the purest hue of gold and holds,
For moments before stamping frozen lips
To the tips of the tallest spruce
And yet,

And yet,
Below silhouettes grow in the days cessation,
color seizes as the final fallen leaf freezes,
And the last Lilly smothered by the softest fairest unbothered hands ,
Icicles sweat,
dislodging and impaling a delicate chrysalis ,
Unwillingly betrothed to a brittle branch,
Now falling little by little,
waiting to catch wings,
But instead
Catching cold.