The Snow Queen

He is blind. You outsiders see no more
than him. He is made blind by ice,
eyes filmed, in his heart a shard rent
between logic and love, given over not

to sadness, but emptiness prevailing
like wind. Once his smile bound
their garden in a parenthesis of tenderness.
This is how flowers bloomed, spring swayed.

Once a rose lay unfurled between them
like friendship. She would cross rivers,
drop her dread over boatside,
walk alone over forest floors if only

the stones would part. If only
she could breathe that empty air,
she would outsmart all nature,
let leaves green again, give her shoes

to a tattered child promising clarity,
a path into the glaciers. She would believe
even as every petal warned her don’t
follow north to the heart of winter

where the queen reigns in frozen remove.
Even then she would believe that every endless
outcry of storm ends with morning breaking
sunlight over the soundless howl. His heart

might melt again. She would believe. Perhaps
she is mistaken. Perhaps the tune is unfamiliar,
and it is only her own echo crying. Temptation
caresses her face. She is fearless. Foolish.

Perhaps spring will grace his heart,
thaw it free of contradiction’s shadow.