A/N: this has nothing to do with the folklore story. it was forced out of me in an english class earlier this winter, but i'm surprisingly pleased with how it turned out.

A Winter’s Tale: The Snow Queen

She sits on top of the fort
That was built two days ago
By her brothers.
The snow has hardened
From the ice water
That they lugged from the river in buckets
To mix with snow
And solidify their defenses
Against invisible enemies,
Parents,
And little sisters.
They’re inside now,
Rosy cheeks thawing over hot chocolate with marshmallows.
And so she is allowed to sit
On the very highest turret,
Queen of the Winter.

Large snowflakes
Catch in her hair,
A misshapen crown
Of wet, white lace.
The silent trees looming over her clearing,
And the dead shrubbery
Sticking out of the snow in rebellion
Are her courtiers.
The sky pays her tribute with a
Whirling, twirling dance
Of frozen teardrops
That coil and curl,
Twist and twine
With the brisk wind
That serves as her advisor,
And her friend,
Whispering secrets
Into the delicate shells of her ears
It tangles unseen fingers in her hair
With all the playfulness of a child,
And all the intimacy of a parent.

“Here I am!”
She shouts to the world,
Just so that it knows.
Her moist breath
Melts the air
Directly in front of her lips.
The wind stills.
Nothing moves
In acknowledgment
Of her declaration.
Satisfied,
She hops off her perch
And makes her way
Around the yard,
Shuffling and hopping
Through the quilt of feathery flakes.
Sleds litter the yard, abandoned
By preoccupied hands.
Footprints, snow angels, and sled tracks,
All empty.
Those that made them are gone,
Not forever,
But for now.
The only sound now
Is the gentle zip-zipping
Of her snow pants
As she explores the deserted battlegrounds.
When she is finished,
She heads towards the swing-set
And sits on one of the swings.
A rhythmic creaking fills the empty playground.

She waits patiently,
Knowing that it will come soon.
A woman’s voice,
Melodic and clear,
Calls the girl’s name.
It cuts easily through the winter air,
Drowning out the muted harmony
Of before.
The queen leaves her kingdom.
The trees and shrubs and wind and snow and sky
All whisper their goodbyes.
They know she will be back,
Tomorrow
And the day after,
And the day after that.
It has been as such
For many winters,
And it will continue
For many more.