(© Words and music by Paul F. Cowlan)
Memories of cold, white, beautiful winters; and cold, white, beautiful dreamers, for whom everyday reality is a gauche interloper, best ignored.
She’s the one who approaches when shadows are falling.
You sleep without dreams. When you wake she is there.
Gently intractable, nothing can warm her.
Features as pale as the snow in her hair.
She covers the world without lifting a finger,
locks up the water and freezes the ground,
forms every snowflake with love and surrender,
and whispers her passion with barely a sound.
Midnight, the earth is aching.
she dreams alone.
Daylight is breaking
on a heart of stone.
A flute in the frost is the sound of her singing.
Her voice is a husky and sad violin.
But don’t stay too long for her ice-ferns and music
or you’ll feel the cold burning under your skin.
She knows that it’s hopeless and time is against her.
Her palaces melt and her icicles fall.
Freeze-dried, articulate, nothing can change her.
She’ll never surrender; but her back’s to the wall.