Storm-driven. Snow blind. Lost.
Wading through four-foot drifts. Face lacerated by ice-breath winds.
Pulls shawl tighter. Fingers and toes so numb.
Found her body after an early thaw. Curled in on her self, fetus-like.
Growing up between her frozen fingers, snow drops.
Some make it through the winter; some don’t.
I’ve been reading Linda G. Hill’s 50 word fiction on her blog Inspiration in Progress. Thought for this edition of Tale Weaver 48, snow drops, I’d play with that genre. Fifty words after a couple of edits.