The first snow fell. But it did not reach my fingers or my nose. It nestled itself high enough in the mountains against the whispering evergreens. High enough that I dreamt about it all the night through. And thought how sad it must be to never experience the first snowfall. It must feel like never falling asleep. An ache that eats away all of those little dreams.
And then two misty days later the winds came. They sounded of orphaned wolves crying out to the lonesome moon. The kind of wind that little children tremble over and withered widows sigh over--imagining their prince lost in that dark, foreboding wind. It took hours until I finally drifted off to sleep. I dreamt of heartsick wolves lost in the snow and quilted tears stitched by shadows in the night.
Yesterday was a day of masks. I felt so lost and confused in the sea of unknown faces. I rouged my cheeks and powdered my hair a dusty white. Strings were attached to my arms as I awaited the puppet master to guide me home. When he untied the stings, I danced across the yellow moon in my taffeta dress, while the ones in masks found shelter and ate their stolen sweets.