Snow knit together, purled and planed with frost, to make her sinuous body; vales and dells of crisply-iced leaf created her pudenda, holly berries her bright nipples. Mistletoe twined and twirled, catching the warm colours of sunset, making tresses of gold and white, faint green and the tiniest rumour of pink; they touched the blushing dip of spine near swelling buttocks as glorious life poured into her, making her, briefly, far more than the sum of her parts.
Snow-woman, Goddess, a being of Winter, ready to join body and forces with the Holly King – born, in her strange cold perfection, to birth the rising Sun, to betoken the lengthening days and the hope of Spring.
He heard her through the rustling of forest animals, saw her shadow etched in the fall of light through russet death of leaves, smelled her tinny essence as it blossomed into salty human groynes and the sharp celery tang of womanly arousal.
The first day of Emergence – of Advent for Son and Sun – dawned, the world fragile and beautiful as pale yolk within a thin shell of frost, gentle pink of birth tunnel pulsating beneath. Twenty days to count upon the abacus of nature’s retreat; twenty days to seek her out, to play with her silhouette, to long for her, unseen and yet known; twenty days to gather the precious seed of Rising within his own wood-to-flesh receptacles, to plan – and lick rough lips in anticipation.
Solstice beckoned with her hands. Hope glittered through her hair. Sun burst through their combined bodies – and the writhing ecstasy of Winter mating.