Damn my hands. They are always the first things to freeze up on me.

Because it's so damn cold up here, I think as another shiver goes down my spine. Even under blankets near a blazing fire, with hot honeyed tea in my hands, I cant seem to keep the cold out. I would resort to wearing gloves, but then my sketches and writings would become smeared and I would have a whole 'nother problem to complain about.   

I came up to the family cabin, of course, to get away from humanity. People were pissing me off, or I was pissing off people, and my art was suffering from long days of work and exhaustion. Running away up to Shaver Lake, enjoying the silence that only snow can bring.. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. Poets and artists have done this sort of thing for centuries and I hear it works miracles.

And yet, the only thing I can think to write of is "Goddamnit it's cold!!!"

Then... I saw it. Flash of scarlet and cream that was quite out of place in the powder outside my cabin window. Surprise and curiosity were enough to pull me away from the fireside, peer outside the frosted pane, and gasp at what I saw.

Beauty. Blinding ivory, gold, and red beauty making a sharp contrast against the white that covers everything else. If I thought it was human, I would have stepped out and ask why the HELL someone would be crazy enough to be walking barefoot in this snow, in nothing more than a thin red robe that didn't even cover the top of her knees.

If, of course, it was human.

Her (if you could define the Divine in such ways) back was towards me, the finest and loveliest hair I could have ever imagined cascading from her head to her lower back. The robe, if you could call it that, draped off her shoulders as she stood there, looking out into the blanketed wilderness. Waiting.

I had never seen a snow nymph before.

As that thought crossed my mind, she tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, chin almost touching her right shoulder, so I could see the profile unhidden by the waving strands of hair. I sucked my breath too sharply, fearful a noise would make her look behind her and see...  

The forests reflected from her eyes. A glow surrounding strong and fine features. Too fantastic to be believed, or accurately written about. Who would believe me, anyway?

I felt my face burn, my inadequacies painfully in focus. If she sees me, surely she will run, her splendor too precious to be wasted on the likes of me...
But then a voice from within, not at all like my own, whispered: "she chose this spot for a reason."

Moments passed. Or perhaps hours, I couldn't tell, too drunk from the sight in front of me to care. I was about to try and speak out when she moved, the fabric she let cling to her frame now slid down around her hips. With all the power and grace decreed to the cosmos, she brought her body into the snow, legs folding underneath her; a silver doe readying for sleep.   
She sat there, contemplating the snow bank she had chosen to rest upon. Then a stretched out arm, and a hand begins carving delicate designs into the snow. I stare, my mind urging me to take in the message she was leaving, that after this moment, those words or signs may bring me luck, or fortune, or joy. But all I could see were the delicate tips of her fingers, the pale skin on top of her knuckles turning pink in the cold.

My fingers reached out and pressed to the glass that separated me from this holy being, as if I could feel the strands of each hair, or the prickled feeling of her winter whipped skin. You are a miracle, I thought, praying somehow that she could hear me, but not falter from me. A bonified, fleshed-out miracle. Fleshed out and made to burn away the ugliness of life. I'm surprised the snow doesn't melt simply by your glance...

Without realizing it, tears have started to flow down my cheeks, from a powerful ache that had begun to grow in my chest. This presence, this spirit of the woods, gracing this poor creature with a magic long since forgotten. I couldn't breathe, and I didn't want to: It might fog up my glasses.

I don't know when she left that place. I swear I never took my eyes off of her, and yet, in some space of time, she had disappeared. All that was left, were the foot prints that led her to this place. To me.

My fingers, strangely enough, hadn't a trace of cold left in them.