I sat close to the fire, eternally cold. It would shiver and spark, crimson and gold. And I’d throw a branch with silvery green leaves into the blaze. First they would smoke, a choking haze. But then sparks would take to the skies, like a thousand tiny fireflies.
In my frigid cocoon, I sit and sigh. No corporal pain nary a cry. Like a babe in it’s crib, rests my heart within a cage of rib. Nothing to fear nor move me. Nothing stung such as this bee.
It floated down to my finger to rest. Against my cold it did hotly protest. I brought it to my lips to kiss, but within stirred a gentle wish.
Like a sweating glass, it trickled down my face. And I was true to form at last.