Friday, November 26, 2010
She cupped her hands and gently blew over her palms; the children saw only the snow, falling from her fingers. She was tall, very tall, and slim as an icicle. Her skis flew down the mountain she loved; straight as the path of an arrow, and twice as fast.
She loved winter; she was never cold, never tired of snow and ice. Her mother had known her name in the womb; Skaði, Skaði, Skaði she whispered, sending chills down her mother's spine.
© 2010 Cynthia Newcomer Daniel Glass icicle by Glasswich. Beadwoven from seed beads; embellished with quartz chips, angora rovings and vintage glass.