The Groom

The trees weren't sure where she came from that December's eve. They had been conversing quietly among themselves, shaking a branch here and there in approval, when she collapsed in their frozen grove. Her breath came out in clouds before her face as she lay there a few moments. There were no gossiping flowers or feathered birds to attend to her, so the leafless trees became her bridesmaids. They wove twigs through her hair, left leaves on the backs of her hands. The sky set to work weaving a delicate dress out of snowflakes, glistening as it fell upon her back. Ice crept through her hair, forming a  ghostly bridal veil, while her periwinkle toes sprouted from the bottom of her gown. Days went on and still her groom never shone is dreary face. Soon wildflowers sprouted through her hair, through the holes in her skull, made bracelets around her wrists. In autumn the leaves wove too-late mittens around her hands, lay like earrings beside her alabaster face. Still she lay alone, her groom as absent as her flesh.  By next spring, the flowers covered every part of her, their roots filling her body like veins, hyacinths swirling out of her sternum. At last the pale-faced groom arrived to take her home with him, at last his dark cloak appeared where she had lain for a year. But he could not take her: she was laughing in the leaves above him, her heart beating in the earth below, and every flower cooing, "It is warm here" in her sweet sing-song voice.