“Roses bloom and cease to be, but we shall the Christ-child see.”—Hans Christian Andersen, “The Snow Queen”

***

When Nordic winter reigns from night to noon,

With darkness, and the daring of her lights,

A tale is told, and so I tell it now:

A mirror made by demons, finely wrought,

Distracted them through hell’s own noonday nights

And let them watch the sons of Adam, apple-bought,

And daughters of Dame Eve, the serpent’s bride,

Lose sight of Paradise through poisoned eyes.

Such false reflections shattered in the sky

And fell like rain to flood the earth.

As fine as powdered sugar, sickly sweet,

Glass scattered like a plague upon the streets

And found in searching eyes a secret home.

It led the wisemen from the children’s path

And made them grasp at knowledge that enslaved.

They no more saw the roses, beauty born,

With warmth imbued, and vibrant color sprung,

For every flower holds a sleeping child,

A pixie, or the Infant, meek and mild,

With power to melt the icy scales.

No, the stricken spurned their only cure!

The white-lipped ice queen, tall and fair,

In carriage, costly-gilt, rode through the square

To find a searcher-slave to swear her oaths

And solve the puzzles, strewn beneath her throne.

Thus a broken boy with glassy gaze

Was spirited away to serve the fates

Of reason, with measurements just-so,

A fairyland enchantment, robbed of soul.

But lo! The white stag sprints across the snows.

Upon his back, a fair maid rides.

For love, she braves the winter’s regal might,

The Lord’s Prayer on her rose-kissed lips,

And Bethlehem’s star, her guard and guide.

The antlers of the stag rise as the Rood

To banish darkest magic of the night;

Its eyes become the diamonds of desire

That lead the weary pilgrim to her rest.

The Queen of the Cold sits proud upon her throne;

Her child-pawn kneels, toying at her feet.

Yet joyless is his just-so “reasoned” play;

His bloodless face no memory displays,

Like apples, red to silver turned,

Without the blushing vigor of Life’s Tree.

And so she comes, his childhood friend,

A little girl no more, but grown in grace

And stature, yet still with child’s purity,

Blazing bright as any candle lit

For Lucia’s coming, thawing chill

And bringing sight, eyes in chalice held.

Here she stands, with braided hair of gold,

And crystal coursing down her rose-tinged cheeks,

Tears that soften eyes and harrow hearts,

Washing sinful sugar from the soul.

His own eyes bleed, as did the Innocents,

And silver once more blossoms red.

Royal lips have turned from white to pink

As Queen of Ice, amazed, beholds the change,

And at her feet, at last the answer lies.

The shattered glass flows down in twin-born streams

Of tears and blood, the double cure.

Her puzzle gains each jagged piece,

And her riddle’s reign is rendered void.

It spells the Word that ends the searcher’s quest:

ETERNITY