The Snow Maidens.

With soft, cold fingers they shower the delicate flakes of lace through the nets at their feet and watch them float and spin their way down to rest on the harsh surfaces below. Rough grain planks are laid with white table cloth. Sharp slim blades are dusted with shredded tissue sugar. Burning dark tiles are padded with thick blanket bolsters. Their blue lips stretch into small smiles as they see the hurting colours laid over with the ivory scraps of cotton they have spent so long knitting together.
With eyelashes coated with sticky spun sugar, with hair twisted into cushioned curls, with nails slicked with candy clear, they laugh and dance as their works of art spin and slim through the air. When they tire of their work they sit, their heels tucked close to their satin-silk skin under their cobweb skirts, and breathe tantalizing fog kisses over the peach flames to the reaching arms of the winds. As the piles of beautiful slips of pure fabric diminish, sent in whirling handfuls to twist along the winds’ light bodies and tease their covetous fingers, the maidens stretch their long bodies and release their hair and laze in soft sprawls on the thick pillows. They coil their arms around the hills of their remaining possessions and with idle fingers sprinkle the residual flakes over the edges of their vessel to be snatched from the heavens by desiring hands and melted against yielding lips.
Far below, the world sinks under a duvet of purity. Sleepless eyes watch the beauty of the maiden’s display settle with light feet on every surface. As the show ends, the last slivers alighting on frozen corners, the citrus light throbs and fades. The maidens lounge in drowsy lengths, their vessel slowly bearing them west, their fires flickering and dying, as the winds wrap their strong arms around them and rest their heads on soft curves.