She was wind. She was rain. She was ice.
Every night, as the clock struck twelve, she appeared in his courtyard.
Every night, without fail, he greeted her.
Who she was, or had been, he did not know.
All he knew was that she came with the winter,
that the Earth seemed to make her,
the leaves, trailing the wind in the outline,
caught in her hair,
formed her lips.
The remnants of snow, lifted with the breeze,
formed her eyelids,
When the clock struck one,
the leaves crumpled back to his garden,
and she would be gone.
So enamoured by her was he,
that he would wait moments before the clock struck twelve,
just so he would be prepared.
So enamoured was that as he spoke to her,
he kept his head bowed,
his tone low and gentle,
his knees in the Earth.
Each and every night, he told a tale of his day.
Each and every night, the woman listened in silence.
Sometimes he had questions –
Where did she come from,
Who she was,
But no answers came,
only the watchful, unreadable eyes made of ice.
he would wonder during the day,
So lost in thought was he that he would forget to drink,
Forget to eat.
Why him why now why this place
he would ask her during the hour,
and still he would get nothing but a smile,
sweeter than any smile he had seen.
So eager to see her was he one day,
That he was early to the hour,
Where the night kept him company
While he slept.