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Angel of Winter
by Terrie Relf
ain gathers on the windowsill, drips rhythmically down upon the rug;
curtains flutter wildly in the wind. I rise from the comfort of my down-quilted bed, close the window, then pause as I realize you've
entered, hidden by the rain.
I should have known that you awaken with spring, that you feel its
essence in the pores of your being when you rise from your bed of
pungent earth, reborn.
And I should have remembered that it was raining when first we met, that you journeyed through the barren park in search of me, and I, wandering alone, was drenched and shivering, confused by the sudden storm.
It was odd how I felt no fear when you drew close, grasped my hands
protectively in yours. You murmured, "Close your eyes," and when I did, I felt an unearthly chill while the park dissolved from view and we materialized in my bedroom.
* * *
I close the window while you wait patiently at the foot of my bed. It's
that exquisite time before dawn, where the sky, a swirl of bluish-gray,
burgeons with yet another storm.
"Why have your returned?" I wonder aloud, still in awe of your presence.
"To be with you--again." Your words resonate through the sparsely
furnished room, drawing me toward you and away from the window.
You extend a hand, beckon me to your side. I approach slowly, allow
you to place a hand against my cheek, where you seem to savor its warmth. Your other hand rests over my heart, and you smile serenely as it pulses against your palm. Like a wind released from heaven, a sigh escapes your slightly parted lips.
* * *
The storm rages outside our sanctuary; steel gray clouds gather, heavy
with purpose. I turn away from the window to watch you sleep, nestled within the quilted down of this lingering chill. You cry out in your sleep, haunted perhaps, by the knowledge that time passes differently here.
* * *
Thunder resonates throughout the room; hail shatters on the roof. I want to ask how long you'll stay, but leave the words unspoken. It's painful to love winter's angels, for they descend upon a gentle dust of rain, only to ascend with lightning's torrential flames.
* * *
You open your eyes, turn toward me, and the glaze of spring is resonated there. I don't need to ask; I know that now you must leave.
"Why must I open the window?" I cry, not wanting to meet your eyes.
"There is a way," you offer.
I shake my head, then look into your obsidian eyes, so like the scrying
ponds of yore. Tears flow in rivulets. I taste these unsalted
tears, then remember when first we met, and how I became fluid in your arms, then merged with you in some sacred space beyond flesh, where
only we could dwell.
"Close your eyes," you say, taking my hands in yours. The room shifts, a field appears, and we are dew upon a blade of grass, the first rays of sunlight lifting us skyward.
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