A rose, its beauty might thaw her heart, but it was frozen too, trapped beneath the ice, trash another heart had discarded. Crouching, she set her bare hand to the ice, the rose so close. Could it feel the warmth she shared? Probably not. So cold, water falling as crystals in the air, like the trapped rose, like the frozen drops landing on the back of her hand. ©February 2019, March 2023 Christina Anne Hawthorne
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