Tales from the ice

The hoarfrost delves deep into the heart of men. Its seedling roots in ancient legends, once shared from warm wool to eager eyes on winter’s long eves, now forgotten in dusty attics where tapestries crumble at the seams. The legends may be lost, but their truths remain. It may be so that they will one day rise up again from nimble fingers and colourful thread to cluster the weft of another hearth.

For now, the hoarfrost lances delicate patterns across the land. It hides inside the hearts of men and surfaces across the pane of their eyes in the depths of winterheld. It was not always so; the rule of cold sways the land now, but once upon a time young eyes did not glaze at first frost. Souls did not lay themselves bare to all, pressed tight inside one’s gaze, slice upon slice of thought revealed.

How do I know this, one wonders? If truth be told, I was that one who wove the original weave of this story and tied the first knot of its falls. A twisted yarn to spin this is, but on such a still winter night, for such eyes may wonder and wander freely in the space between the sparks, I will weave the tale of old.