In the glow of the soon-faded fire, she lifts her eyes from her computer screen to catch a glance of the retreating glow of twilight, the final rays of light dancing in a double reflection—tossed from Sun and ray to eye where their ember’d amber glow reposes to the lens of her computer’s monitor—until besought by eyes mine own, enraptured in her beauty:
Through those lenses, unfettered by the pulsing of mechanical wire to strain and groan amidst a technological frame—through the gateway into which those are led (with care enough) to find her true profile—the dying light is seen, but more. The winter’s chill has not encroached among her warming heart, and—though in sight no end is seen to come from out the wintry storm—from out her eyes is builded there a stalwart home for us. And swirling there within her mind, amidst the flurries and the fears, is found a heart that beats with life, not only life but passion too the likes of which those dying rays could never hope to match. A desire deep and burning strong to lead a life her own but more: to lead a life her own to share with some great-blesséd few. And though the trees seen through her look no longer clothe themselves in green, the life seen there from out her eyes has not been found to wane: for still in every joyous song she finds her revery, and ever more bright her smile shines amid the darkened gloam.
The fire’s light begins to fade, replaced with a fluorescent glow which like the winter snow is blinding to the un-expecting eye. But not to be outshone, her light doth magnify the glow. The winter scene she gazed upon escapes her moment’s sight, and with a breath—and at the sound of my smile—she turns to me and asks with a smile of her own, What?