Ice had formed when they found her.
No thickened, opaque crust,
But a delicate rime along the river’s edge.
Moving gently in the bitter water,
Tendrils of long dark hair marked the paleness from her skin
And stone shadows filled her cheeks with shade.

“Come with me,” she seemed to sing to those who found her, lonely, there.
“The biting water is nothing to the coldness of the world.”

© Anne McMaster 2016