The Gods of Winter

The Gods of Winter

At nine years old I danced with the gods of winter, studied 

their faces, stroked their beards, learned to spell their most 

secret names. Wrapped in wool and linen quilts, I followed 

them through their forests, past fox dens, beyond browned 

ivy, and leaves that crisped under my shoes. They held my 

hands, as sure and tight as my mother's, to pull me, rise me

up their hollow hills, their ravaged rock-slide mountains. Our

feet traced ancient paths that weren't there a moment before. 

We checked our reflections in ice-mirrors along the falls, spoke

of the stars that had shattered overnight, their dust still glittering

branches, stones, mosses. I trailed behind as they murmured

to one another of things I mustn't yet know. I pushed aside handfuls 

of white and wet to scoop acorns and pine cones into greedy pockets. 

We reached the promised part of the peak, slid down shifted slabs 

of slate and flint. The wind was sweet mint and anise over my 

face. At once, I was caught up in their laughing arms, passed from 

one to another before dropping back to an Earth I was not sure 

I recognized. She was a fine lady on her way to a ball, her dress 

all ivory flakes and treeshadow. We neared the river and, hands 

taken again, we walked on water together, homeward. They 

watched from the edge of the garden as I slipped through the 

back door, unseen by all within-- my reward for being the first 

to wake. I watched them go. I fared them well. They did not 

turn back. I still light winter candles and remember how they shone.

First appeared in Cicada Magazine.