She Is Winter
She hovers above the soft ground,
Her dainty feet mere inches above the smooth earth.
The dress she wears shimmers,
Made of the smallest of ice crystals,
Woven together with the thread of frost.
Over it, she has the cloak of snow,
White and pristine, it hangs from her small frame,
Limp and unmoving, except for a gentle sway,
Made by the wind, in the dark of the night.
She is winter.
She sees a flower, a bright, colorful blossom,
Poking tentatively from the frozen grass.
Slowly, with careless grace, she bends down,
Looking at the little bloom, ...