red-ish, alive-ish
red flowers bloom from the rope, standing in stark contrast to the white snow. they are beautiful, if you do not look at them head on. they are alluring, tempting you to come closer, to pick just one or two. you must not. wait until the snow piles high enough to smother them, wait until the flakes muffles their cries. start weaving. breathe freely, but only until
spring bounds into motion. the snow melts, and the frayed rope becomes visible. the field is littered with the ruined strands, some moreso than others. lay down the rope you have been weaving all winter and wait for the sprouts to show. your skin is itching just at the thought of them.
the magpies swoop, frenzied, and you will madden alongside them. claw at your arms, your face, your chest, until you're covered in the colour of the flowers that have yet to bloom. you miss them. you miss them so terribly. so you will wear down your nails, beat at the earth with your hands and weep into the soil. anything to get them back.
red flowers bloom from the rope (again), and you will lose yourself in them (as always). they destroy you but when they are gone you will keep weaving ropes for them to grow from. you will keep tearing yourself to pieces so the seedlings may survive. you can't help it.