The north wind blew, bringing him along with it;
Eyes the color of the summer sun she so longed for;
Her heart melted along with the snow, revealing a blossom;
But as the bud bloomed, she saw this was not a blossom at all, but a pulsing, red, weed;
As it flourished, the rest of the meadow died;
The weed thrived in the sun of the summer, the sun burning as bright as his eyes;
The last remaining flowers faded in the breezes of Autumn;
The bright leaves insulting their deaths, while the red weed survived;
By the time the north winds returned, the only plant was the weed;
It  held strong, but began to grow black and wither as the winds sought to bring their son home;
He began to distance himself, every step he took, the further away he moved, the weed grew weaker;
She had told herself she needed no one, but as he faded from view the ache grew;
As the winter turned to spring, the meadow was dead;
As was he, the winds were not kind to ones who left them;
A burnt black hollow occupied the space where her garden used to flourish;
She no longer wanted the meadow, nor the unimaginable pain it caused her;
She regretted allowing him to touch the meadow at all;
Many tried to revive the destroyed meadow, once so beautiful;
She raged against them, her light fading with each failed attempt to save her;
She decided she no longer had use for the desolate meadow;
She sliced it from her chest, setting it aflame with the last spark of her passion, passion that once could only be set by him;
The meadow burnt, with a light nearly as bright as the one in his eyes on that cold, winter day.