MATCH
Sparks spilt onto the snow.
In her hands she cupped a glow,
Hunched under the silver tree
For warmth. Through frosted eyes she
Saw nought but her flickering friend,
Dancing orange on the end
Of the match she cradled between finger
And thumb, praying that it might linger
Till morn. She would be warmer in the morn.
If she stayed awake till dawn
She might be warm.
Warm.
Her snow-gilded eyelids drooped.
And from her hand swooped
The match.
They found her the next morning, still
Sleeping, despite the early chill.
There were diamonds in her eyes and hair
And splinters scattered everywhere.
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