The Ice Queen

I can still hear her voice, clear as polished porcelain, whispering lullabies on a soft, silvery night.      

The moon revolves around a castle that’s perched above the green pastures of Kirkjufell.  Located in the heart of Iceland, there is no greater waterfall in all the world than this one.  This is where I met her, the love of my life.  Stringy cascades flare off the side of a bluff, like the way her hair would bend in the candlelight as she read stories to me about London under the stars.  A sharply pointed mountain salutes the sky above the falls, where Apollonian birds take flight on a runway of smooth, green soil.  On the eve of twilight, an undulating trail of neon begins to snake its way across the sky.  ‘Tis the Aurora Borealis, wild above the wilderness, blazing its way over the peak of a mountain, returning to the castle it once illuminated whenever her bright smile tried to outshine it. 

Her castle of ice is a monument of stability, standing tall in a landscape wrought by the ferocity of nature.  It stands the way her spirit did, on proud days when we flocked out on the tundra, impervious to frostbite and fragility.  Bjork’s music paints a blueprint of her face in the stars, a constellation of codes carved on a pagan scroll.  For a moment I can see her up there, casting holy coils of halos in the clouds, drifting over the Earth like the Pequod over the white whale’s ocean.  Something in the sky bursts.  The angel’s cloud releases tiny white flakes of the purest fractal form, falling to the land as slowly as flakes of feathers, coming to rest on the terraces of the palace, where her flesh once nested on pillows as light as her grace.