By R.E. Lowrance
Hoar frost melts softly under my prints. The air filters the same sleepy blue as my mind. Tree roots sleep at my feet, and gold reflects off the mountain’s winter coat. Alizarin crimson fades around the edges of new snow. My skin takes on a hint of green beneath the fur of my hat and it’s more apparent here than anywhere.
The frost nips and herds, the path carries on, endless. After so long in the cold, the woods and wild, the hearth tempts me not. I live for glass on my eyelashes, the scent of pine on my nose, and a quiet mind soothed in blue. No pull towards the flame greets me, no, it is the forest that holds my love.