She was born
of the slow white
What her hands touch turns to ice
and her heart is made of glass.
her fingers are the long thin icicles
hanging from the front porch of an old home
her eyes the brilliant shimmer
of far-away stars
in the clearest of
crisp moon-lit nights.
Her breath is the falling wind
coming down from the North
and her smile
is the way moonlight catches
on an open plain of snow.
she will forever remain a monster
having clenched her fist
deep within their chests
and frozen their hearts mid-beat.
she is a mystery
the thing that they anticipate and fear
thinking that they know her wrath
their time spent studying
her unknowable mercurial temper.
Then there are those of us
who accept her for what she is.
Knowing that her unpredictability
as with her eventual and oft unheralded return
from season to season
will remain of her choosing
until the day we die.