THIS MENTAL IMAGE OCCURRED TO ME AND I WROTE IT IN ONE SITTING. BE KIND...
Delicate and white the snowflake descended, halting and lofting in the bold December wind yet steadily, patiently seeking its destiny to rest gently on the foundation of the world.
The snowflake fell upon a stone, a broken stone, and the warmth within the stone was yet enough to melt the icy treasure. It soaked into the surface, blending with a remnant of lion's blood that slipped the summer rain. Created and Creator admixed as one on the broken stone table.
Could it have been a year? So brief a spring, so short a summer? Could autumn have bustled past with blustery winds and fire hued leaves? And now the winter takes its turn, briefly flirting with the world as winter's wont to lead the land to sleep and dream of next year.
This was no enchanted snow. This was but nature's curtain drawn upon a year well spent. This was but carols remembered, Christmas foretold, hot cider round the roaring fire, a time to pause and reflect on the joy of living.
More snowflakes fall, their pure white legions caressing the careworn world, anointing the spent grass and autumn leaves with gentle forgetfulness, a fresh canvas for April's jolly art.
The table's cloaked in white once more, yet the crack that was not there before says "Don't fear, my children. For you death itself worked backwards."
Delicate and white the snowflake descended, halting and lofting in the bold December wind yet steadily, patiently seeking its destiny to rest gently on the foundation of the world.
The snowflake fell upon a stone, a broken stone, and the warmth within the stone was yet enough to melt the icy treasure. It soaked into the surface, blending with a remnant of lion's blood that slipped the summer rain. Created and Creator admixed as one on the broken stone table.
Could it have been a year? So brief a spring, so short a summer? Could autumn have bustled past with blustery winds and fire hued leaves? And now the winter takes its turn, briefly flirting with the world as winter's wont to lead the land to sleep and dream of next year.
This was no enchanted snow. This was but nature's curtain drawn upon a year well spent. This was but carols remembered, Christmas foretold, hot cider round the roaring fire, a time to pause and reflect on the joy of living.
More snowflakes fall, their pure white legions caressing the careworn world, anointing the spent grass and autumn leaves with gentle forgetfulness, a fresh canvas for April's jolly art.
The table's cloaked in white once more, yet the crack that was not there before says "Don't fear, my children. For you death itself worked backwards."
