She walks along the somber path by the light of the moon, chasing snowflakes with her umber eyes. She’s cautious as she trudges across the frozen ground, so as not to lose her rhythmic intentional footing. She doesn’t normally get along with the cold, but she knows she needs to get out, to escape, to let the breeze find and untangle her elusive string of never-ending thoughts. Snow paints the tips of her curly midnight hair, which bounces with every springy step she takes. She presses on, one step after another, crushing the ice beneath her feet and leaving a trail of glittering footsteps behind her.
You’d never meet someone as warm as she, though you may have to search the deep fires of her soul to find it. Others, those who are cold, have a way of freezing the outer layers of sensitive hearts inside walls of ice. She’s known a lot of these.
There was a young man once, who tried to freeze her into time with his wintry claws. In the heat of passion she escaped him and his frozen grasp, but coldness tends to linger; it hunts hungrily within the confines of her interior; it stalks the corridors of her mind. She clothes herself in mystery like a fur coat, her soul, a stag, prances and leaps over rolling hillsides, and has only an evanescent awareness that it is being hunted.
And now, her spirit has become worn as the bottom of her shoes; her once rose-colored glasses have been frosted with melancholy and regret. But there are embers burning inside of her; you can still see them in her eyes. She was meant to be free; she cannot be contained. She was made to dance upon the icy winds amongst the snow and the sleet, in all its glorious treachery. She will not be brought down; she will soar; she will melt away the winter storm. She is the most beautiful triumphant tragedy. Fire beats ice.
And with that, she begins her walk home.
© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018