Jean Albus
If winter’s bloodless sweeps of snow and endless sunless days demand an antidote, here it is. It’s not just her dress, though it does brace the spirit like a strong, golden whiskey. It’s not just her hair, a hidden delight like a mint beneath a pillow. It’s not just her lips, red but not with cold. It’s the fact that she’s out here at all, waiting under a tree so patient and sure. Something’s about to happen. You don’t know what it is, but she does. And she’ll be here when it does.
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