Crimson in the Snow

Amanda Kaufmann

Sin is a swift glimpse of pale, silken flesh

Of a slender ankle through swirling skirts;

Sumptuousness, like ruby red velvet,

Or pleasure too great for the soul to keep.

Austere grey reigns, heady and heavy as

Clouds, or Nathaniel’s thorny Puritans,

Who staunchly police their human natures,

Preserving precious snowy purity.

Is sin a craven thing, dark, cowering

In the furthermost corners of our hearts?

Or are they but a lost celebration,

These inevitable vulgarities?

Though that dense, grey fog obscures once clear truth,

Natural impurity deserves not

This shunning; for though flawed it may be, the

Most scarred stone secretes a glorious gem.

Sinful is a red rose petal fallen

Upon a sweep of new, powdered snow; a

Blemish upon china whiteness.  But some

Look beyond the stark comparison: for

What purpose did this flower shed its dark,

Ominous tear, its blood red messenger?

The intent, you see, is the importance.