The air seems to sparkle with glimmering, unshed tears from above. The universe observes the world from it's pure position, encompassing the night sky and all beyond. The earth trembles, trying to coax warmth into its deepest reaches and highest peaks.
The rose, her petals coated in a glassy sheen, rejoices even as she shivers in the new coat the late December evening as given her. She glitters, her soft pink skin slowly relenting to the unending freeze that now covers her absolutely. The pale moonlight reflects off her body that now shrivels and surrenders to the beautiful onslaught of rain now frozen upon her breast. Even if such sub-zero wrapping is meant to stop the breath she does not breathe, the sheer, momentary glory of her icy wrap makes her death ever-so worth it; no snowflake would dare call themselves more glorious or gorgeous in their frigid fashions than her.
The silky cerise of her face gradually gives in to the harshness of the elements, rust staining her complexion as the cold crystal takes her over: mind, body and soul. But for one fleeting, solitary point in the vastness of time, her summer splendour is won over by the wonders of winter, and the world envies her spotlight, as the moon, glistening in it's own snowy shrug, watches her fall.