The dreary times were soon to pass.
No matter that her breath still steamed both outdoors and inside the drafty house. No matter that her red fingers barely bent with swelling and that the chilblains on her toes still burned and ached and itched. No matter that she took so long to warm come night that she almost despaired of sleeping.
The dreary times were soon to pass.
She knew.
True, it was still frosty.
But the cold was dying.
She knew, because the ice formed only on the very edges of her washbasin and because what frost adorned the ground in the morning would transmute into miniature mirrors of dew by the time the sun rose higher in the sky.
And because she saw the primrose.
Blooming.
Out there.
In audacious glee.
If the tiny flowers could endure the remnants of frigidity, so could she.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Na'ama Yehuda 
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