Amy

There is a small piece of red ribbon snagged between two thorn bushes.
Its edges are frayed and tattered, and many a hole exists through its middle.
But when the wind blows, it still tried to untangle itself in a desperate attempt to be freed.

With each breath of wind, the ribbon loses more of itself.
Even still, most of it remains trapped.

Frigid air strokes it gently.
With hushed whispers it taunts.
Teases.
Tempts.

The ribbon once again strains against its bonds.
Threads unravel, and with a rip,
It is free.

Threadbare and shuddering,
It twists away on winter winds.