Winter makes me ache for spring. I don’t feel like myself until the crocuses bloom and I can feel the sting of sun on my skin once more. And every year it’s the same. The winter comes and I retreat. I go deep into the ground, and slumber with the dreams of green seeds and the wishes of flowers rooting at the feet of trees, skeletal longing.
And every year it’s the same. I am sorry to the world for my quiet voice and the way I, Druid-like, retreat to a cave of silence. I am muffled, in the soil. I know the world is going on without me, that there are people speaking to my petals on the frozen ground, but I am not yet apart of this world again.
Am I behind ice? Do I become the Snow Queen every year, as soon as the Oak King dies and the Holly King takes his reign? Do I wait, longing for the oak staff and light of a love I left behind? I can see the people on the other side of the blue ice pools, how they speak to me, and scream to me, but I cannot hear. I cannot move my mouth to reply. I put my frozen hand against the walls of my icicle and snow castle, and wish I could feel the beat of my heart in my peony skeleton rib cage. I am numb, I am nothing, I ache for the feeling of life.
Oh lover, touch me when the last of the snow is gone. When my palace melts to tears. When the depression is gone, and my soul does not fear.
Elisabeth Writing 