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I stood upon the tall precipice, gazing outward over the undulating grey sea. Gusts of icy wind shoved at me and far below the waves broke with chilled violence upon the stark, broken rocks at the base of the cliff. The wind sheered through me like a cleansing knife, clearing away thoughts and emotions until I was but a part of the cliff, the wind and the sea. Slowly I turned to look over the snow covered plain. Far away, foothills rose to merge into towering mountains that scraped the very sky.

Only a month or two before the plain had been a vibrant, grassy veld that teemed with wildflowers and life. Bees had buzzed about importantly, dipping their probosci into the spread, yielding pistils of tender blossoms. Birds had glided on the tranquil breezes and shy deer grazed the verdant steppes. The sun had shone down warmly and filled the air with the scent of flowers and sea.

Now it was all snow and ice locked. But, under the snow, under the icy sheathe, the earth only drowsed. The Mother never really slept but every year would rest and let Her lands regain strength and fertility. I could sense the inimitable life force of the earth there still. When it was spring and summer, life was obvious and powerfully evident but in the winter, there was the promise. It was time to relax and regain strength, muse over the past year and look forward to the burgeoning growth that was to be.

I walked slowly towards the mountains, to my snug cabin that nestled into a hollow of the mountains. There a warm fire smouldered upon the grate and my books and musical intruments waited. My paints and wood working tools, my leather supplies and knives and punches and thread. When the winter blizzards scoured the outside plains with relentless fury, I would be warm and safe and quite occupied.

My footsteps crunched in the snow and the clean, freezing wind whistled past, sending miniature snow devils a-whirlin' o'er the glistening surface. I spotted something strange ahead of me, an anomaly of a kind, a splash of color. Forehead wrinkling in puzzlement, I walked closer and then sighed in wonder as I knelt down to regard it.

The proud stem of the bluebonnet rose up into the artic air, displaying its petals with allure. Against all odds, it survived and even flourished. A signal reminder of the glory, love and promise of spring.

This one is really good.

Thank you, Belle.
It has been awhile since I posted anything "story" like. I must not neglect my muse.

Look forward to reading more of your stories.

what kind of muse is that bayn? and do they have a season for it?

Simon = TROLL!!

again with the troll?

oh man please don't feed them trolls, they'll just keep comming back for more

but really, why am i a troll?