The sun had forgotten to rise.
The winter trees, thinking themselves wise, stretched their gnarled limbs to the moon to drag it down.
But their sharp branches pierced it. The moon was far softer than they had thought.
From its wound light and dark bled out. It flooded the marshlands and the world became awash in shades of gray.
She tried to outrun it, but she tripped over the root of a tree and tumbled through the thorny underbrush.
As she began to cry, the northernly winds whispered into her ear:
"Scratch the skin...
...break the flesh..."
On unsteady legs she rose, and from the multitude of scratches, blood, red as the sweet berries she loved to feast on.
And each drop, as it hit the ground, returned a little color to the world.
"That is how you
get
your
zest."