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The Snow

 Have you heard the story? The one about the old woman who knits the snow? 

    She's an ethereal sort. But grounded - you can tell by her swollen knuckles; her arthritis is wicked.

    Still, the snow comes all the same.

    She's a badass like that.

    The pattern moves as her needles pearl. It sweeps gently as she knits. 

    When it covers the ground in one whole, she smiles. She has done her work.

    She'll do it again. Until the end of time. When she'll lay her needles upon her lap, rest her hands, and sleep.

    A good sleep, for she has done good work.

    When time begins again, she'll be little more than a babe.

    With all things blank and bright and brand new. 

    But this will pass. 

    And then, as is the nature of grace, she'll begin to knit the snow again. She'll lay down her work until the world is blank and bright. As though it were brand new. 

A Tired Life

 Once upon a time a woman was very tired, had many aches and pains, and a sorrow at the rise and fall of each day. It was her time of life. Or maybe it was simply her life.      So she gave it up, and moved to a cottage by the sea.     And there she lived, merry as the days were long, all her tirednesses gone and aches appeased.      They weren't really.     But, from time to time, she thought they were.     Which is, of course, all that matters.
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The Wood

 The woman stood in the snow and wondered if the wood could hear.     'Well, of course we hear,' the wood said.     The woman nodded.     Of course. It was a thing she had believed since she was a child, but hadn't yet known.     'But do you listen?'     'Enough to know that there are things you know that we do not, and things we know that you do not.' Woods are rather high and mighty. For all that, rarely does anyone pay attention.     This woman was paying attention.     'What don't I know?' she asked.     The wood did not expect the question having come to a belief that curious humility was rare amongst humans.     'Oh, this and that,' the wood stumbled, thinking, for it knew that it held secrets of which humans knew not, and yet it had never been asked to describe such things.     'And are you content?'     The wood...
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A Note on Difference

Somewhere in the air of a different tune, there sat a stranger, twiddling his thumbs.     He was different.     His hair was brushed and plaited.     He preferred the fresh breeze of a kilt.     His smile was as golden as his socks.      Sometime ago, he could have been different than what he was. Caved to the noise of the crowd and given up his rights to himself. Changed.     He didn't though.     He was made of stronger things than the moods of crowds.     He found a place where the air felt thicker, and there he whistled all the different tunes. Once he had them out, he found his comfort. Right inside where the skin was tightest and the beats and booms ticked along in their strangest ways.     In the end, there was nothing to change.     He was just very much himself.
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One Hundred Years...

 There is a wall at the edge of an enchanted forest. It stands alert, though it is riddled with cracks. It is not much in itself, simply an old wall. But it represents so much more. It represents a whole.     On the day it falls, the forest creatures bear witness to the horror. The silence comes first; that is shock. Then, their keening wail is too filled with sadness for any passerby to listen long. It is heartbreak in a sound. Horror is it's bedfellow. Yet...     A small bird taps at the ruble.     Another drops a stone from it's beak.     A badger lays a brick with bare paws.     A fairy sets a gem to fill a crack.     Little happens that first day. Little happens the next. It was, after all, a very big wall. A year passes, and there is no more than a foundation. Another, and it's up two layers more.       One hundred years, and there is a wall. Another whole. As cracked...
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