zornhau

My pink-clad daughter descends on discarded drafts of Dark Age mayhem. The princess makes two folds, two snips with zigzag scissors and repeats. Soon a scatter of paper snowflakes bedecks the glass of the garden door. My words of war and death are become a mere frost framing glimpses of winterbound slide and sandpit. Even so, a little girl's laughter cannot save the burning mead hall.