She sat by the windowsill late one night; it was in full winter and the room lit by firelight.

The snow was falling gently to the ground, glistening magically with crisp moons’-light abound.

Not a sound could be heard but winds’ dance, against the glass she gazed through, in a trance.

The warmth cast from the fire she barely felt at all.  It was the wintery night scene which to her heart did call.

The crackle of the firewood and flickering of the blaze were distant and foreign now amidst her window gaze.

She felt nothing but the emptiness of her soul, which made her wish for the fire that had once made her feel whole.

A slight movement of her hand allowed the winds to enter, cutting off the tiny bit of warmth the fire had sent her.

Now all was silent and motionless but the falling snow, so she climbed out into it, and the skies’ scattered glow.

She ran out to where the moons’-light hit the ground best.  She felt not the snow nor the cold air from the west.

There she laid herself on the white earth, until he felt the warmth she knew to be priceless in worth.

There she dwells ever still in that place so right, where warmth was given to her soul far from the firelight.

K. Aldaya, 9/21/03

Picture:  Artist Unknown; http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_eqYkvg-kuo/UHrEVXZRDOI/AAAAAAAAFXU/bYdZ5VuJRBM/s1600/Girl+at+Window.jpg