The forest beholds her and mine, its most devoted eyes.

She is as lovely as a breath of spring to warm away the tendrils of long winter.

She sings so sweetly in the meadow, gathering frost kissed flowers for her hair.

Light falls upon her like a dappled ornament to gild her auburn locks and I watch her from the shady boughs and love her from afar.

Closer yet, my presence would cast a shadow to darken her radiance.

So I pine, jealous of the squirrels and wrens and martens that attend her.

She kneels in tawny grass and her sylvan congregation flock around her beacon beauty.

Field mice scamper up her porcelain arms and she giggles, melodious as heartstrings plucked by some virtuoso of my own infatuation.

Crows comb at her curls with ebon beaks.

Foxes paint her in vibrant hues, muzzles red and gulping tattered strips of perfect flesh.

A stag opens her like nature’s offered gift and as it gorges, a garland of entrails hangs like wisteria about its antlers.

The forest descends, and I watch her beauty barter itself to ruin against the snap of greedy mouths.

But soft, her weeping crimson raises steam like beauty’s snow-born ghost…

She sang so sweetly in the meadow; now, a doleful song like shattering Venetian glass.

She was as lovely as a breath of spring, but to this land the grip of winter clings.

And the forest has grown so hungry in the cold.