Rushing wind comes, its chill adorning the dormant bluebells
and ivy sinew. Clover of four and three, so chopped and lean,
as they prick through the frozen grass. Colts grow their shaggy hairs.
The fae hide in silhouettes of trees, as shadows grow long, and the Moon
is a laden mother. It seemed an unusually early winter, I thought,
when my boots trampled the crackling river ice. Weight shifting.
Traction sliding.

There are so many paths along the cliffs, down into to the lake. Most
crushing the last flowers before the first glacial breath, save for one
lone blossom. Its blushing, luscious weight. The petals coiled as furled
wings. I had always passed it each day. Pondering its unchangeable
wiles, like the smooth skin of milk unbrushed. Dryads had often spoken
of art within nature's grasp. How it was painted by the serene Elder,
and its fleeting beauty. Brief things, flora are - A thought that
grasped my mind.

Crystalline frost, makes it sleep, its tinged hue fading. The stem a
willowed hunter, its leaves outstretched to bear arms, stalk in patches
of icicles darting. Silken knives whisper all about it, and yet it
stands to this day. Even as I pass. But this day, things change. I stand
here once again. My eyes set upon this sleeping beauty. Compelled,
breathless as my soul becomes steam in my mouth. Hands reach to touch. A
caress trembling and pale.

One slip of rime, my fingers touch. First one petal, and then the other.
To my curiosity, easily flowering. Reveal to me your artistry, with each
tender pull of heat my hands bring. As sunbeams to spring, it opens
enough to reveal a slumbering figure. Astutely tiny and beauteous as the
flower it seemed to be contained within. Oh how she looked in the bleak
grey horizon, shrouded within creamy pollen and melting snowdrops. Her
tousled locks, the breadth of fires. Gentile lost fae.

My index finger dared to touch the blistered wings, burned in black ice.
My heart grew full, not knowing if she were to live. Quickly moving
forward, I tended to her and soon found that heat became agreeable, but
that her wings remained unrestored. She spoke to me with such tones and
softness. What pining in my understanding for knowledge of what she was.

We both knew, as fateful days drifted. That if she could not fly, death
would await. Weaker, her body, but sparkling her soul, more brilliant as
every newborn flower that sprung within the glistening first morn of
spring. I felt her kiss, her chiming voice whisper - Believe in us,
anhatam'vrai [*]. The last petal of her life did ascent. Even as trails of
salt bore my eyes through bitter waters. I saw her spirit rise above it
all. Of death. Of limitation. And with one small thought, my crooked
sobs became laughter. As my beloved would come again upon the bed she
had dreamed upon.

Footnotes:

[*] "My heart is revealed."