Snow

She was beautiful in the pure simplicity of her adoration.  She stood just a few feet ahead, her back to me and her tilted back.  I knew without looking that she had her tongue out.1

She had her arms lifted a bit from her sides, as if to welcome the world, as if to invite the entirety of nature to come in and warm itself at the heart.  Or, perhaps, as if at any moment she could leap into flight, and soar and twirl more intricately than all the flakes falling around her.2

She must have caught one, for she finally turned to me.  A smile spread wondrously across her face, highlighting the healthy rose tint to her cheeks.  Her dark hair glistened with a thousand wintry stars, but brightest of all were the sparkles in her pale, winter-blue eyes.  3

She looked up again, and spun around with her eyes closed, the fringes of her scarf dancing in the light breeze.  She paused again and smiled at me expectantly.  I smiled at her smiling at me.  Finally she took my hand and spun me around.  I laughed in the snow, in her glee, and I leaned my head back to catch one on the end of my tongue.4