The Ice Sculptress
A little girl was walking through the briar,
Where fat new-fallen snowflakes came to rest,
On thorny vines of twisted winter wire,
Where every pear tree was a partridge nest,
And passing by a frozen river bed,
This innocent artist soon became enticed,
And eyeing the sparkling winter scene she said,
'Would be a shame to waste such lovely ice.'
She quickly went to work with all her tools,
And sculpted crystal creatures one by one,
And beautifully they danced and skipped like fools,
But soon dripped down to nothing in the sun.
The sculptress cried and cursed the heavy heat,
Which tore down her creations with the dawn,
She screamed and kicked and stomped her little feet,
And fast broke through the ice she stood upon.
Just then a sudden storm eclipsed the light,
Which only seconds earlier she'd cursed,
The hole above her sinking head closed tight,
Now frozen shut more thickly than at first.
She splashed and burbled up her cries for help,
And just when she believed that she would drown,
And that no one would hear her desperate yelp,
A fist broke through and pulled her to dry ground.
Then on the frozen shore she looked around,
Her glimmering creations all stood near,
The rescuers smiled but never made a sound,
She smiled right back, relieved of her fears.
When the spring and fall and summer river flows,
And August fires smolder, pop and burn,
The girl no longer stomps and kicks, she knows,
With winter's magic they will soon return.
They, the dancing sculptures, children of the cold,
Whose warm wet hearts remain throughout the year,
And when she wanders to that spot I'm told,
In wintertime, they always reappear.
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