Her hair is flecked with flakes of snow
and this I know,
that time, a bird now tame,
has given up its game,
and by her hand is held.
A flicker on a snowflake bright,
a gleam of glowing light,
sparks and sparkles pure and white,
just behind her ear
like a frosted giant's tear
in suspension held.
A gist of ghostly whisper-breath,
as deeply still as death,
has played across a lash of eye,
light as lie,
but clean and honest as the sky,
and by the picture frame is held.
A whirling whorl of wind is still,
bereft of will
and frozen in a phase,
and plays around her face,
in instant held.