This, a static world
Where the arctic breeze lacks
Even a leaf to rub up against
Where interwoven branches stretch together
To shelter what lies behind, far from view
A path of ice dissects the mask
Carving frozen features
To the ubiquitous white
Against the backdrop, a farmhouse peaks its head
Yearning to see beyond its fixed vision, beyond what the trees degree.
From out this world, a figure grows
Cloaked in black, but cloth and mane
Haloed by an orange glow.
Her lantern hangs,
Nearly unswaying in her grasp.
Unstirred by its gentle progression
Carried by unseen intent
She steals my way a glance, and,
Clinging to light for but a second,
Her eyes to precious stones do turn.