My great-grandfather set trees on fire.
(Sometimes literally out in the forest and sometimes metaphorically with candles and beads and handcarved ornaments)
Dark in the winter and people’s heads sometimes darker than the outside world.
What pictures I’ve seen were full of candles and fire and light in every corner that could spare a glow.
A poor reflection of the absent sun but a faithful reflection of the stubborn hearts of those that would-
Face down the darkness, candle-fierce.
We’ve always valued the lights in the darkness.
The best way to deal with the darkness is to set it on fire.
For more fires, darkness, and lights, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.
At the end of the long walk,
At the end of the cold night,
At the end of the silence,
At the end of the noise,
At the end of the road that wasn’t traveled,
At the end of the road that was,
There is a small place to wait
There is a peace in the looking back and the looking forwards
Understanding where we are brings a certain comfort to knowing where we are going.
For more paths, taken and not, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.
In the open spaces, the cleared roads and fields, the snow is deep enough to drown in.
Sometimes in the spring, we find the bodies of the creatures that attempted to cross the expanse.
You can always tell where the small groves of trees are left in between the drift.
The snow on the fields is pristine and deadly, but in those small islands, is a map of life and activity.
Paw prints, wing prints, body indentations- the trees are both shelter and activity.
A safe place to rest, to hide, to wait out the endless expanse of winter.
There are fewer trees in those great fields now.
Sometimes, when I look out on the unmarked surface of those cold deserts, I can hear the soft calls of the life that has long since passed and drifted onwards.
The islands of shelter in winter are always busy
Adapting to change can be difficult… or impossible.
For more shelter and changes, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.
Ice only makes temporary advances on rivers.
The push and pull between freezing water and deep-moving currents
Spreads through the ice-
A pattern of conflict mapped in shifted, flash-frozen waves.
Rotten ice is not always so obvious-
Or so predictable.
There are those that cross the deep-set rivers in complete safety
And those that sink in the backyard pond
Through the solid, still layer of unmoving water.
Stepping out onto the freeze means
Not only knowing the depth and length of the ice
But listening carefully to the heartbeat,
The inexorable pace of still and moving water.
Not all paths are obvious in their safety… or danger.
The intersection of ice and water has been something that has fascinated since I broke through as a child.
For paths of less and more safety, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.