Winters-Lament.txt
Winter's Lament
by Afril
Enrobed in frost, her silver fur twinkling in the cold light,
The white maiden does yet jealously guard the moon's passing.
Her breath is the North wind,
Her touch brings the ice, stopping rivers, covering lakes.
At her footstep, the frost covers tree and ground alike.
And yet, for all that, she is not a Cold Mistress.
A swirl of her robe brings the snow to cover the Feral's Den.
That brings the cubs and adults alike out, wrapped and bundled like Winterhaven packages to squeal and bounce and toss hand-made projectiles at each other.
Breathing on hands and yipping when an icicle is dropped down one's back.
The fevered cry out for her cooling touch, the old wait for her to sit beside them.
'Sleep', she whispers in their ear.
'You have done much, you have earned rest. Your body will nourish others, your hide will keep another warm. Sleep Now.'
And when the sun is warm again. When the creeks and rivers shake off their frozen shackles, you can hear her screams in each tortured ice-crack.
Tighter, Ever Tighter the White Lady squeezes her fist upon the Land. She knows her time is ending...
And yet, She will give up the soil when they drag her frozen claws from it.
But she relents when Spring comes to sing to her.
To warm her cold bones and lighten her burdens.
And she allows him to walk her back to the highest places, the farthest reaches, where even Hot Summer can not melt her throne of Snow.
And there she waits for the Seasons to turn, for her time to again Rule.
For Spring has Summer, and Summer has Fall - But Winter has only the Wolves who sing to her in the wastes.
Never forget, We are her Children -
She brings us Food, when we would otherwise starve.
She brings us Shelter from the larger predators, who sleep away the dark nights.
She makes us Strong by taking the weak, Who would otherwise sicken and face a much worse death.
So remember when you grumble about the crunch of snow between your toes,
The breath that freezes on your whiskers,
That She has given you these Gifts freely.
Soon enough, your head will be bowed low,
And you will wish you could remove even your fur,
Because the Heat beats down upon you.
You will wish with all your heart for Her return.
For the cool nights and quiet days.
For a time of rest,
When no field is plowed,
And the harvest you gather needs little but a sharp axe and a strong arm.
When you sit and tell tales to the young ones.
When you groan because the mice have gotten into your grain sacks...
Yet, you would not set a trap for all the gold in the Chamber's Treasurebox,
For a dozen little fur-balls are clamoring all over your youngest cub,
Making them laugh as sweetly as a New Dawn.
When the Night is open,
The moon full and bright,
Sing to her, My brethren.
Sing of Winter's Lament.