![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Bear and The Child
Jan. 2nd, 2012 11:51 pmOf trespassing, of love unsated (perhaps), of restlessness and growth.
A girl, who wandered many days, who slept where she would of a night. Who never met the eyes of the forest creatures around her and therefore had no companions, who did not stop to pick flowers and thus never met the Wolf, who did not carry bread and so attracted no dwarves or witches or princelings under a curse.
A young bear, growing faster than his parents would have liked, who sat in his high bedroom on top of the nightstand (and leapt down quickly when four heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs) and looked out on the world around, and watched the comings and goings (of which there were few, near the house of bears, but many farther out, only visible from atop the nightstand), and dreamt of their beginnings and endings without meeting their eyes.
The unlocked door, so inviting in that chill wind that bites through your bones in late winter, before the flowers have poked out from the snow, as the mud beneath the trees begins to dream of thawing, when the frost disappears into the air and the sun is more for light than warmth. A warmth, a smell of something cooked, something born of love and passion.
Unselfconscious, for she has never met the eyes of the forest, she wanders throughout, looking, smelling, feeling, thinking strange thoughts.
Curious, he patters about, almost - but not quite - leaving his parents’ watchful eyes. He thinks, he sees, he wonders if someone may be dreaming of his beginning and end.
Hungry, she sates herself; thoughtful, she is seated; tired, she finds a place to sleep, to dream.
It is but a moment, when the roaring shakes the whole house, and the world comes crashing down, around both of their ears; the noise she could take, but when their eyes meet, all the careful illusions shatter, and life begins anew, with something crucial between them as their lines diverge, violently.
One moment of love, in a world of cold; it is enough.
A girl, who wandered many days, who slept where she would of a night. Who never met the eyes of the forest creatures around her and therefore had no companions, who did not stop to pick flowers and thus never met the Wolf, who did not carry bread and so attracted no dwarves or witches or princelings under a curse.
A young bear, growing faster than his parents would have liked, who sat in his high bedroom on top of the nightstand (and leapt down quickly when four heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs) and looked out on the world around, and watched the comings and goings (of which there were few, near the house of bears, but many farther out, only visible from atop the nightstand), and dreamt of their beginnings and endings without meeting their eyes.
The unlocked door, so inviting in that chill wind that bites through your bones in late winter, before the flowers have poked out from the snow, as the mud beneath the trees begins to dream of thawing, when the frost disappears into the air and the sun is more for light than warmth. A warmth, a smell of something cooked, something born of love and passion.
Unselfconscious, for she has never met the eyes of the forest, she wanders throughout, looking, smelling, feeling, thinking strange thoughts.
Curious, he patters about, almost - but not quite - leaving his parents’ watchful eyes. He thinks, he sees, he wonders if someone may be dreaming of his beginning and end.
Hungry, she sates herself; thoughtful, she is seated; tired, she finds a place to sleep, to dream.
It is but a moment, when the roaring shakes the whole house, and the world comes crashing down, around both of their ears; the noise she could take, but when their eyes meet, all the careful illusions shatter, and life begins anew, with something crucial between them as their lines diverge, violently.
One moment of love, in a world of cold; it is enough.
