OfferingDax bent her head over the tiny dancing flames in her palm, trying to absorb every lick of heat she possibly could. The tongues of fire were small and weak, flickering on the edge of extinction, but she kept them alive through the sheer power of her will.A particularly cold gust of wind caught her by surprise, breaking her concentration. With a hiss, the flames went out.“No!” Dax half-shouted, half-groaned. She snapped her fingers, but they didn’t spark. She tried again, desperate for some warmth, but it was hopeless. Between her frustration and the cold, it just wasn’t going to happen.She ran a hand through her
Mists of LuetalseI was raised to know each slope and crevice of my island, to understand its movements and temperaments. I have bordered the entire circle of rock more than once, getting to know my home as if it were the visage of a close sibling.My father first took me on the thirty-day journey when I was very young, in the early spring, describing the land as though we were birds in the sky, as I ravenously absorbed the scenery, drawing each detail on a mental map. At that time, our island, which is really the head of a dormant volcano, Mt. Luetalse surrounded by sulfured water, was still half submerged in the surplus of melted ice and scuttled up the cli
Dance of the (rainbow) white, rainbowBedecked in white, she came,Silent footsteps melted as she beckoned; 'To winter cometh thee' said she, And taunting, teasing uttered: 'Thou cans't resist me';Come stay a while in my silent, calm and quiet woods,Come rest a while, lay your weary head upon my drifts;I'll crown thee with my flakes, Resplendent jewels of heaven made;And finest flutes of old oak trunks I'll play,Sing a mournful tune of old, with wolves for baritonesAnd creaking of the branches, under heavy load, for rhythm;Come Play my love,Your crown of fire dazzles me, even if it burns,Your fo
Heart of IceShe wanted to be the Snow Queen.None of us could understand it-- we all wanted warm and sun and away-from-here-please, but she wanted to be the Snow Queen. The ruler of the winters we all hated.She told us this on the ancient playground floored in cracked concrete full of metal swings and metal slides and metal monkey bars, under a flat dark sky that looked more like a far-off roof than clouds, playing with a dead weed the color of wet cardboard that had worked its way through one of the hairline fractures in the cement we stood on, and the only color was our jackets, and even they looked washed out.One of us asked her why, and she said, "Because everything in winter is gray and brown and dead and ugly-- except snow. Snow is white and blue and pure and beautiful. I want to be able to make it snow."She always talked like that.Maybe we didn't understand her. Maybe we didn't want to. Maybe some of us did want to, but were scared to try. And maybe she was lonesome because of it. But s
Snow QueenHolding hands with permafrostwhat time became was never lostsleeping, weeping, what's the costShe's the keeper of my keylet silence carry forth my pleaShe never even touched the groundsaid so much without a soundsnowing whispers all aroundShe's the one who calls to mewith Olly-Olly-Oxen-Free.
Frost Fern DragonsLeaping lightly across the clear glass, the frost dragon left a cold trail behind as it traversed the distance between itself and another of its kind. Bigger than it, the new frost dragon strengthened briefly, ferns of ice trailing from its head and neck and creeping across the window. The first one faltered, stopping farther away than it would have liked. Frost fern dragons were extremely fragile, the mere mention of heat enough to send them scurrying away, tiny ice creatures leaping over the windowpane.The bigger dragon studied the smaller one for a moment before allowing its new neck ferns to merge with the rest of its body, ceasing the
My ForestEach tree a thought, remembrance soughtIn the forest of my mindWith seasons spanned, a grasping handWould hold what it could findA robin pecks at sandy specksIn tracks you left behindIt huddles low against the snowIn loneliness confinedThrough creaks and groans the forest moansIts stillness so refinedSaplings, roots and sleeping newtsTheir frozen earth entwinedA misty haze of bygone daysPortends to strike me blind.
Until Next SummerThe breath of winter lives on the surface of the waterHot cold steam that takes a calm respite over the stirring creekNo fish to be welcomed by, no bright copper scalesJust the creek below that moves despite the snowA vagabond rests his wings at a nearby branch adorned with iceHis brown speckled feathers ruffle from the breeze as he singsHe whistles a tune of relief, shakes his tail feathersAnd settles down onto his branch, his cot for the nightThe trees and bushes creak from underneath their white burdenFlurries of their cold guest continue to litter atop their bare armsLike a visitor that has overpacked for their stayA
his weeping paints the worldStillness.As the world grows colder, he reigns silent over the fragile hopes of frightened children.His heart long ago turned to icefrom watching the lights go out,one by one,inexorably,in the night of the world –but when he weeps,snow covers blackened earthand soothes bruised hearts.
HitchhikerLeaving alligator skin trailsEtched into the snow,He watched the cars to by.Arm outstretched, thumb out,He watched the cars go by.His breath coalesced, The tips of his fingers blueAnd still the cars went by,As the sun went downStill the cars went by.Shoulders hunched, world wearyHe walked on the side of the roadNo cars in the night went by.He screamed at the snow clad trees,No cars in the night went by.His tired eyes closed, and he stumbledThe snow softening his fallOne car, at last, went by.Driven like a demon from hell,One car, at last, went by.Leaving alligator skin trailsEtched in the snowThe cars went by.Missin
Sta.sh
