Why the Willow Weeps

Nickolas Pitts 

Mrs. Mullett 

American Lit. 

26 September 2016 

Why The Willow Weeps

The Wind chilled my bones, the ache all-consuming my physical sense, not just the creaking of bone but the bitter sting and burn of frost -bitten fingers and nose. The world was but a blur of whirling winds and thick snow plummeting from the sky like soot and disturbed by the assaulting air to my nearly frozen, teary, eyes. The whistling and howl of the wind all I could hear, drowning out very my breathe, my steps, my each heart beat and thought swept away by the banshee shriek of winters rage. Still I waged my war on this remote hell, determination burning in my very core, the furnace which kept my momentum from wavering in the hardship of my voyage. Trees surrounded me, their stark, barren braches black blurs against the storm, stripped bare of even their bark by the starvation of life in this barren, god-forsaken wood. A tree of a thicker disposition loomed in my path, which I eagerly clung to for refuge from the squall. I shuddered at the slightest easing that offered from the ice, my black gloved hand shoved under my arms for some form of rehabilitation from their mistreatment pulling me along tree branch by tree branch through the tombs of snow I dared not tread over. My legs were the most agonizing in their protests, every joint and bone creaking at their abuse, trembling with the force of staying upright, even leaning against the poor shelter of this inhospitable tree. I dared not linger, for fear of never moving again, straying my meager respite onto the trail once more. Time became meaningless, eternity stretching behind me and before me, ever present, unchanging, fiery ice. My many layers began to do nothing but weigh me down and slow my passage, the snow melting at even my slight heat, dripping slowly but surely through to my skin, immobilizing me further. Numbness was spreading, taking the ice with it. I knew I should be afraid. The tell-tale slightest...