Skin, blue,like mistletoe berriesunder her midnight sun,she sways and humsto the tune of firefliesin flightand whispers upon the windthrough bare branches.Night’s chill rests, warm,upon bare shouldersin want of cover, butthe animaand bloodare numb to Winter’s sting.So, she dances,the wreath of Spring,long fallen away,beyond crystalline graspsof icy fingertips(or loving hands).Fallingsilent and still—a night heron frozen, mid-flight—she turns, slowly,to meand the offending glowof yellow lamplighton bedroom walls … Continue reading Frozen Charlotte by David Estringel