I associate
winter with stark beauty. It is the season
of cold nights and hot apple sider. It
smells like smoke and the dusty burnt sugar of oncoming snow. There is peace in the quiet after a winter
storm—when all is muffled—pure—consumed by frosty fallen crystal. I revel in winter’s crisp bite. It calls to me as others yearn for the dog
days of summer and the burgeoning weeks of new-spring.
Winter
has its dark side too. Just as I find
solace in its terrible glory, it saps my will to strive—leaving me careless of
whether to rule in hell or serve in heaven— as long as I can delay the battle
for another day. Summer prompts me to
walk for miles across sun-warmed beeches.
Spring bids me seek its promised greenery. Fall—winter’s prodigal sibling—calls me to walk
in woods aflame with the golden corpses of seasons past. Ah, but winter pulls me into myself. The circle constricts to the memory of those
lost—paths not taken—old regrets and poignant joy. I leave holiday parties to walk into a cave
of bitter sweet remembrance. Who am I to
decline an offer of food or drink? The
goals of brighter days seem as passing as Autumn leaves. I want to seek, strive, not to yield but Winter
weighs me down with cold complacence.
Winter is
the season of cutting. I search for the trivial—the
less valued—the things that fell short of expectation. I throw away the dross. It will not make me happy but I will take
cold pleasure in an office stripped of extraneous distraction. I find comfort in the prospect of a new year unfettered
by detritus. I am boisterous and introspective
by turns—good company for a few hours before cold night settles o’er my
thoughts.
Here in
the soon to be 70-degree warmth of a Maryland autumn I have heard winter’s heralds. The crunch of leaves—pumpkin bounty—gift trees
and holiday schedules sing the coming change.
Hot tea and closed windows quietly proliferate. Burnt sugar and smoke is in the air—waiting for
shortened days and wind-blown nights.
Winter is coming.
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