It was 76 degrees here yesterday, and yet today I am listening to Sting’s haunting, eerie, and lovely album If on a Winter’s Night, and thinking of how I have quite missed (in all senses of the word) winter this year. Even when I went home for Christmas break, we had precious little snow, though I did get the one nice snowfall I asked for. While I was home, I wrote a little scrap of something that doesn’t have a story, but for now, it stands as more or less this northern-girl-in-Texas’s love poem to winter.
His kiss felt like a blast of winter wind that hit her full in the face. She was almost frozen for a moment, and then she gasped, filling her lungs with the air that had been too harshly cold to breathe the moment before.
“I’ve missed you, my summer queen,” he said.
She looked up at him, watched as her breath caught as frost in his eyelashes. He kissed her again, his lips leaving her cheek as tingling cold-hot as the return of warmth to frost-chilled skin, and she smiled as his arms encircled her, drew her to him. She could get buried in that embrace, sinking at last into a cold numbness.
“Later,” she sighed and shook his hair–the first silver drifts of snow–off her shoulders, pulled away from him. As she walked, she tugged the frost-wilted flowers from her hair where he had touched her, and dropped them to the ground.