Ice Dance

In the summer months he was a carpenter, carving wood into intricate figurines to be sold at market. He made enough to get by. He had never felt the allure of possessing.

As winter came, he would hibernate with the forest. Retreating into his cottage with an acceptance of time that only a man of the earth can comprehend.

When the snows would come, the delicate compacted flakes would replace his wood and he would create exquisite statues to be displayed at the annual village ice festival. Each piece a masterwork of his symbiotic relationship with nature. Under his respectful hands, the snow would yield to his touch, allowing him to craft from her the beauty of worlds.

That night, there was a melancholy in his soul as he sculpted quietly under the tender gaze of the full moon. His hands spoke of loss and longing but his heart was alight with the steady glow of hope. As he shaped the final segement, a magnolia for her hair, he felt the breath of her lips touch his neck. His love.

In the clearing of the forest he held her in his arms once again. Entwined, they slow danced under the bashful stars, the snow like water carrying them as their hearts merged.

He held her tightly as the first light of dawn began to melt away the magic.

He never sculpted with snow again, the earth had given him the final goodbye he had needed. And peace.