If you were quiet enough, you might hear the heartbeat of each flake as it hits its sea of brethren. You could be so light of foot that you might sense the shiver of the snow itself, nestling into the crevasses and nooks of every tree and root.

So cold you would be that the breath in front of your face would no longer obscure your vision, its warmth a clash of two dichotomies, the complex construction of frozen atoms, and the conglomerate that you are; all flesh and blood, skin and vibrant life.

But in your moment of acquiescence to the delicate bitter winter, you would become so cold, the fingertips of Jack Frost himself upon your features, binding you to him, blue and numb.

That is how they would find you, little one, with icicles upon your molasses colored hair, stiff and motionless, standing a sentinel amongst the trees in the weak morning light. Ah, they would say, not a more angelic vessel that has lived, and oh, they would think, not a more enraptured soul that has died.