Quiet Snowfall
By Trinity
The snow fell around me in fat sparkling flakes, dancing giddily on the
wanton wind. And I danced with it, giggling merrily as I tried to catch one of the
tiny pieces of magic on my tongue.
The quiet elegance of a deeper laugh rang musically behind me, the sound
swirling around me as much as the snow, almost seeming to come from the flakes
themselves. I turned to him with a smile on my lips,
"What?" he returned my act of good will with one of his own rare smiles.
"Only you mon ange, only you." I blushed, hiding my face in on of my
warm winter mittens.
"The snow always reminds me of new life, I don't know why… Perhaps
because I just want to be contrary!" he stepped a little closer to me, a sparkle in his
mismatched eyes.
"Not at all, the snow is heaven's gift to the earth in what many blind,
ordinary men see as the season of death. Ever wonder why snow is white?" he
asked picking up a handful and grinding it against his palm. I raised an eyebrow at
him, "White is the shade of purity, earth is cleansing herself with a blanket of
Angel feathers." He laughed ever so softly, "I daresay I have my own theories as to
why your own skin is so fair my dear."
I thought upon his words a little, staring into the lulling pools of his eyes as I
did so. Something he might not have considered entered my mind,
"Your mask was white." I remarked thinking I'd won the battle of wits.
"Yes, you might think it unbefitting… But think harder. We all have
blessings to match our strife's Christine, if there was no touch of good in me you
wouldn't love me, would you?" I opened my mouth to retaliate, but could bid no
words so I closed it again.
Playing mind games with him was futile, I always lost but I like to think I
was starting to improve. I wandered over to one of the enormous trees that were all
around us, an oak, I curtsied before it. Then stood, laughed and threw my arms
around it in a child's gay embrace.
Suddenly his presence was behind me and he turned me around to face him,
his face close to mine.
'A tree seems rather a normal thing, not something magic gathering.
I suppose that's true to the naked eye, but it can woo the imaginative shy.
The wanton wind chatters by; restless anxious and cheery. Awaiting the branch's
slow reply.
The weary tree soon answers back, feeling hopeful but still, matching the breeze's
tact.
The old cedar's ancient bark, a young maple's colourful hark.
An apple's fragrant bows, unequaled among the bushy sows.
The pear wields pungent fruit, relentless in the ripe pursuit.
But bow we all before the oak, our leader clear, his timeless voice unbroke.
He listens to the older winds holding silent court, far as we concern busy with our
vain binds.
Next pass you a tree think of him as a friend that might one-day be.
Leave they us with message clear, that we but fools of short-lived breath!
Give me a wise old tree, something some would gladly be.'
He smiled at me as I let me eyes close in ecstasy, listening to his voice. God
what a voice, if it can be so labeled by that mortal word! When he'd finished he
lent over and put a kiss on my lips. I linked my arm through his and fell into step
beside him.
"How do the words come to you when you need them as they do?"
"They come to me whenever it pleases them."
"Often it seems."
"You disapprove of my spontaneous spouting of poetry?"
"I will put it this way; remember what tomorrow is?"
"Of course."
"Consider that my present." I pulled his head down to mine for one long,
sweet kiss; he interrupted it momentarily,
"Happy Christmas Christine."
"Happy Christmas Erik."
A/N: The poem "Tree" is mine and I humbly COMMAND that you don't steal it.
Thank you, I was worried because it's one of my favorites I have ever written.
By Trinity
The snow fell around me in fat sparkling flakes, dancing giddily on the
wanton wind. And I danced with it, giggling merrily as I tried to catch one of the
tiny pieces of magic on my tongue.
The quiet elegance of a deeper laugh rang musically behind me, the sound
swirling around me as much as the snow, almost seeming to come from the flakes
themselves. I turned to him with a smile on my lips,
"What?" he returned my act of good will with one of his own rare smiles.
"Only you mon ange, only you." I blushed, hiding my face in on of my
warm winter mittens.
"The snow always reminds me of new life, I don't know why… Perhaps
because I just want to be contrary!" he stepped a little closer to me, a sparkle in his
mismatched eyes.
"Not at all, the snow is heaven's gift to the earth in what many blind,
ordinary men see as the season of death. Ever wonder why snow is white?" he
asked picking up a handful and grinding it against his palm. I raised an eyebrow at
him, "White is the shade of purity, earth is cleansing herself with a blanket of
Angel feathers." He laughed ever so softly, "I daresay I have my own theories as to
why your own skin is so fair my dear."
I thought upon his words a little, staring into the lulling pools of his eyes as I
did so. Something he might not have considered entered my mind,
"Your mask was white." I remarked thinking I'd won the battle of wits.
"Yes, you might think it unbefitting… But think harder. We all have
blessings to match our strife's Christine, if there was no touch of good in me you
wouldn't love me, would you?" I opened my mouth to retaliate, but could bid no
words so I closed it again.
Playing mind games with him was futile, I always lost but I like to think I
was starting to improve. I wandered over to one of the enormous trees that were all
around us, an oak, I curtsied before it. Then stood, laughed and threw my arms
around it in a child's gay embrace.
Suddenly his presence was behind me and he turned me around to face him,
his face close to mine.
'A tree seems rather a normal thing, not something magic gathering.
I suppose that's true to the naked eye, but it can woo the imaginative shy.
The wanton wind chatters by; restless anxious and cheery. Awaiting the branch's
slow reply.
The weary tree soon answers back, feeling hopeful but still, matching the breeze's
tact.
The old cedar's ancient bark, a young maple's colourful hark.
An apple's fragrant bows, unequaled among the bushy sows.
The pear wields pungent fruit, relentless in the ripe pursuit.
But bow we all before the oak, our leader clear, his timeless voice unbroke.
He listens to the older winds holding silent court, far as we concern busy with our
vain binds.
Next pass you a tree think of him as a friend that might one-day be.
Leave they us with message clear, that we but fools of short-lived breath!
Give me a wise old tree, something some would gladly be.'
He smiled at me as I let me eyes close in ecstasy, listening to his voice. God
what a voice, if it can be so labeled by that mortal word! When he'd finished he
lent over and put a kiss on my lips. I linked my arm through his and fell into step
beside him.
"How do the words come to you when you need them as they do?"
"They come to me whenever it pleases them."
"Often it seems."
"You disapprove of my spontaneous spouting of poetry?"
"I will put it this way; remember what tomorrow is?"
"Of course."
"Consider that my present." I pulled his head down to mine for one long,
sweet kiss; he interrupted it momentarily,
"Happy Christmas Christine."
"Happy Christmas Erik."
A/N: The poem "Tree" is mine and I humbly COMMAND that you don't steal it.
Thank you, I was worried because it's one of my favorites I have ever written.