The White Maiden

The maiden walks along the stone-hard ground.
The trail behind her shivers through the air.
Her fingertips, spun through the trees, are wound
So they may leave no trace of summer there.
Ebony hair, set off from ice-white skin,
One so cold with single touch she’ll freeze.
The lake, gilded with ice, fragile and thin,
The frost, like starlight, shimmers from the trees
As she continues further on her path
Her last steps lie, suspended there in time.
Child’s glitter, scattered on the earth,
The morning chorus – ceased to play its chime.
As garish sun makes way for diamond rain,
The summer passes, winter comes again.