There were worse things than to be snowed and wintered in, wintered more than snowed as it was sleet and ice that scratched on the wind in blow from west sounding on cabin’s wooden walls and panes of glass and amassed on lawn and bowed bodies of the trees.
It was reason that they went: to be wintered in—cut-off from the world and its demands living lost and abandoned, forgotten, for a time. Winter arrived as storm blew in, and they attained their isolation, apart from world, in walled-refuge of cabin-home.
Within the walls, fire in hearth warmed as its yellow light and clean flame burn rose from split wood of ash and cherry woods and built into embered heap that retained and spread the fire’s warmth in emanation into room.
On a table across in way, a centerpiece of winter laurel showed in arrange from clay and handmade vase. Its leaves were of deep green, even in winter’s heart, and from them winter-blossoms broke in columned stack of small, fine petaled flowers. He had cut them by the river’s edge in hide of the woods beyond.
There were worse things than to be snowed and wintered in, wintered in by heat and light of fire-hearth, good book in hand, in the company and spirit of she near beside in lie and read, body long and eased in graced repose, hearth’s flame and softer energies in glow and radiance upon forward facing of her front, her eyes to page, their rise in turn, smile of thin-lined lips and eyes of green and yellow autumn centers.
Wind blew, sleet fell slowly changing into snow; but his body and heart were warm, and his heart beat slow, heavy, and strong; he feeling every beat and pulse in his warmth and being. She felt it too, an energy between, and she shifted soft in smile, her smile of lips and eyes lasting moment-longer in linger before fall and return to book before and between them on the floor.
In winter’s storm, in its dark of night, she dressed in winter-white but in wear and blouse that shone, also, forward to the spring; a white of snow, and too of blossom—like laurel in table’s centerpiece—blouse in front bore button of five petaled flower left undone and freed so that high of her chest was covered in drape of white fall as low wore loose and expose to curve and slope, beauty of form, and rose-hued focus and soft bud-swell of her open winter breast.
He couldn’t help but stare, admiring sight and beauty and too the serenity of her spirit in reposed lie in glow of light and heat-giving hearth.
Heartbeat in his body strengthened.
Her eyes rose and smiled again, longer lasting still in moment’s linger, bringing pulse to further raise.
There were worse things than to be snowed and wintered in, wintered in by heat and light of fire-hearth, good book in hand, in the company and spirit of she near beside in lie and read.
He looked down again to book in hand, his heart still beating strong.
From the page read lyric lyric song:
“I had an errand there: gathering water-lilies;
Green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady,
the last ere the year’s end to keep them from the winter,
to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted.
Each year at summer’s end I go to find them for her,
in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle;
there they open first in spring and there they linger latest.
By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter,
fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes.
Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!”[i]
He thought of the laurel on river’s bank and of she in read beside, both in blossom and winter’s white.
Mind broke again from story and page as song began to play, soft instrumental and airy voice in beginning of the play sounding from shadowed corner in depth and recess of room from turn of record set in motion by the willing of her hand. Out from the shadow, she returned in light; loose fall of her covered again though sharp angle of front hinted beneath and, as blouse was all she wore, the rest of her was free; soft smile again from thin lips and eyes, her eyes’ then more gold than green, as she swept a strand of fallen hair back to place in catch of ear.
“Come on, skinny love, just last the year…” Lyrics sang.
She returned to lie, low fall and expose of slope and shape and beauty of form restored in show.
Sweet was the singing, both hearts beating. He met her eyes in rise from her book. Heart’s beating strong, pulse of feel through quiet in their rest, quiet through eyes’ keep and strain of the still between.
“…And I told you to be patient; and I told you to be fine; and I told you to be balanced; and I told you to be kind…”
Voice and energy broke as he moved for her; in want for her warmth, in want for her radiance—energied glow of body and spirit illumed in the hearth-born flame.
Her smile spread and gentle opened, soft bare of teeth and press of tongue gentle to their backs in wait and want for his own’s match-meet.
His sate of the wait, in kiss’ reach, his hand to her bared and covered beauty, slope and curve and full of form of bared and covered beauty; his hands in cradle to her swells; finger’s caress to her changing ends. His kiss’ fall to hold of hands, caress and linger-sense of pass in remain to neck and collar’s ridge. Lips’ ascension of her slope, arrival to heights’ ends, keeping to the heights.
Then return of kiss over trail from which, he attained her mouth again; bodies’ hold, bodies’ match, her eyes completely golden as they lain in the light and glow and spirit-heat as cabin’s fever took in full and from the shadows and record’s spin, songed-voice adored:
“My my my, my my my, my my…”[ii]
[i][i] Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Rings.”
[ii] Bon Iver, “Skinny Love.”