A unpleasant air makes the climb all the harder
For age has made these bones as old as the land under her feet
And no one will help her
Not that anyone is hear to
A lone pine sits watching her smugly from its permeant residence
Waiting to snark at her slow approach
Not one but many more steps before the summit is reached
The hag begins to wonder
Why do this every time?
Because otherwise all like her will no longer be?
Maybe it would feel better if it wasn’t for that smug tree
When the sun finally rises she stops to rest
Her luncheon of nuts and dry meats
Consumed in teeth that hang on
Chomping as loud as she can
No one cares what noise happens up here
Up again and bones creek
It’s not far now
Past that pine
There is a pool
Full of summers last wine
She looks at her reflection
It’s older that she thought
She takes out a spoon and drinks
Sip by sip the memories of the summer past are drunk
At the end she feels a bit sunk
By all the memory in her full belly
Then it’s time.
A flash and she’s back to being all dark and mysterious, still aged but black and not orange
The Winter Hag looks at the empty pool and says
“Pine. You always keep the memory so strong. I wish I could keep such strong memory. ”
And as she walks a into a nearby hut, you could swear the pine was now somehow even more smug than before.