Just the other day I returned to see
that ice had devoured my home,
draping the loving windowpanes in frost
and numbing it from inside out--
shag rugs, trust, honesty, knowledge,
all congealed.
Seeing the blue lace slowly sealing my door,
I grasped the stiff doorknob and wrenched it open,
fingertips turned blue closing on stacks of diaries
and the music box, its chimes stubborn when wound.
My arms thrown around my chilled possessions,
I ran back out into the swirling snow
where I still stand,
small body frame,
hair that the wind braids with its cold fingers,
wings budding from my spine and shredded at the ends,
every shade of green with gold intertwined
and coin paillettes studding the scales,
folding them around me for warmth.