The old man’s beard moss hung heavy on the trees. I almost didn’t recognize the forest at first. “What happened to you?” I asked.
The eldest tree sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his regret, or maybe just the moss. “Don’t ever make fun of a wizard’s beard,” was all he would tell me.
“Old Man Winter’s not so bad. I mean, he has a right to be here, and sometimes he’s downright cozy,” said Mother Nature, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand why he insists on leaving his beards all over the place. And don’t even get me started on the way he hides all my handiwork under snow.”
“Is that why you two have such an on-again, off-again relationship?”
She tossed her hair and sent me a glare. “Listen, I’m far too much woman for just one season. Judge me if you dare, but just remember who’s in charge of wrinkles and stretch marks at the end of the day.”