The Frozen Wood can only be found on the coldest days of the harshest years. Stark gray, orange and brown, shivering beneath winds blustering breath. The Frozen Wood moves slowly, an icy dance with nowhere to go, bending branches to break.

Brooks run through the Frozen Wood, where they flee or if they’ll last until nightfall, no one can know. They move, only, and until they can move no more. Trees lean in to one another, chattering leaves, shuddering trunks, stilling themselves for anther gust.

The Frozen Wood makes everything unseen visible. Hiding is for Summer Woods, pregnant with green to bursting, intertwined branches and vine, hollows concealed. In the Frozen Wood, what was safe becomes exposed.

There are paths through the Frozen Wood, roads to somewhere anyone can go. Where cars speed by and strangers linger, where cities grow and worlds collide. Where everything thaws, sliding by to tomorrow. In the Frozen Wood, time stills.

The Frozen Wood is full of jagged edges and hidden nooks where only icicles can fit. Rocks and branches press together, trying to escape the snow invaders on all sides. A silent war of what is, and what has come.

The Frozen Wood is a chilly playground. It’s a slide that never ends. It’s a mystery that must be solved. It’s a death to be avenged. There is laughter in the Frozen Wood, and also tears. There are ends that melt into beginnings.

When walking in the Frozen Wood, remember always your way home. Where chocolate can be heated, and fires lit, where wool blankets the hills of pillows instead of snow, where laughter resounds and stillness flees.

Go to the Frozen Wood one day, if you can find the way.

All photographs contained in the post belong to Rebekah Faubion.