Her eyes closed, sleep clouds her vision.
Dark, choppy tendrils of hair cling to her rosy cheeks,
High cheekbones dusted with misplaced flakes of snow,
A stray cigarette dangling from her frozen bruised lips,
Partially opened, breathing in the intoxicating fumes,
Her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the pine forest’s reverie.

Her eyelids flutter, opening slowly,
Her irises dull silver; the warm spark long gone,
Framed by thick eyelashes, snow clinging to them,
And dotting her threadbare coat, secured around her skeletal body,
Her hands exposed to the frostbitten cold.

Her fingers twirl the cigarette around as she unsteadily stands up,
Taking a long drag, the smoke collecting into small clouds,
Visible in the chilling air surrounding her.
Her body quivering, she spits out the cigarette,
And grinds it into the hard-packed snow forming beneath her feet.

The tall pine, a beacon in the night,
Drapes a blanket of white snow around itself,
Masking the icy scars of the biting winter,
And the winding veins, pushing out of its distorted bark.

She encompasses the pine tree’s thin body,
Its skin pressing into her pale arm.
She opens her mouth, and her words get caught in the sharp breeze,
The wind and her voice twisted together in a winter melody.

Her eyes close, snow clinging to her thick eyelashes,
She takes a curt breath, and continues to softly sing,
A lullaby for winter to sleep again.