Off the smoothed paved road, north of civilization,
Lays a place frozen in time.
Like a beaten, rusty clock that finally stops tick-tick-ticking,
A train that’s engine puffs out its last flowery surge of smoke,
A sweltering flame that flickers out,
This vast land is suspended in glittering translucent white.
Glittering, sparkling, shining under the winter sun,
Each stick, leaf, and berry is encompassed in ice.
Once free to flutter in the breeze, once allowed to bend and twist to its limit,
This land is now still.
A rushing river cascading over jagged terrain,
Smoothing sharp points and ridges,
Suddenly frozen in space and time.
Harsh, crisp gusts of air sweep over the land as if it was a barren wasteland,
A speeding bullet slicing through the air.
And the emissions these wisps leave behind:
Frozen, taut silvery-white,
Yet still a calm dusting,
A layer of ice.
At first this liquid dust, clear and gentle,
Flows over each stem, berry, branch,
Until the cool air becomes too much.
The liquid morphs to glass,
Shining,
Sleek,
Still.
Every blade of grass, now a wand of ice with a florescent green center,
Every red berry now a twinkling, blushing orb.
The forest settles into serene hibernation, satisfied with its new apparel.
The world is still,
And the ice has come.