Trampling through the snow,
floating through the snowflake flurry,
I made my way to the edge of the neighborhood
where the houses ended
and the woods began.
It was late at night
and all the windows slept.
Step after step, I climbed
the spiraling incline
to the deserted train station.
The broken plastic waiting-chairs
shivered in the cold.
Beyond the train tracks
the forest sang—
a tangle of rough branches
dark and stiff and frozen.
In the far-off distance, veiled by night,
a behemoth of stone blinked a red eye:
an old mill, half-fallen into ruins.
I turned my gaze away from it,
I stood under the bright white light
of a solitary cyclops lamp.
All seemed as it was before:
the night, the white, the cold.
But when I turned again toward the tracks
she was standing there,
white and beautiful and cold
arrived at last from other climes
with her icy ways and windy chimes.