The Fae sits curled up upon my shoulder,
wings drawn tight about a slender frame
offering protection from the chill.
Winters breath escapes her lips,
soft puffs of steam caught up in the icy wind.
Fingers like fine bone china, blue tipped from the cold,
dance on a lyre,
soft music calling in the gale.
Sky dark, blackened ink, fades behind the grey.
Large feathery snowflakes glide gently down
waltzing about the wind,
frosting all they touch.
Falling faster they meet the ground
diamonds upon the pavement.