You are long and bleak, you are monochromatic and suffocating.
You curl around yourself like a sleek grey cat, turned inward, oblivious and self-assured, unfazed by your chilling effect. I want to like you, to embrace you to see the good in your wintry silence, but your indifference haunts me and I am left counting the days until spring.
I stand at the kitchen window on a winter afternoon when the sun is fading and the pink light reflects on the snow; soft, cottony pink and mauve with a blue tinge at the edges. I want to paint it, memorize it, eat it, inhale it, this tranquil light. As it grows darker, my reflection begins to materialize on the glass. Eventually, I’m left standing at the window facing an inky blue background behind the mirror image of my face, which looks old and tired; time has not been kind. But on this evening, it doesn’t matter–I am fortified by the light and the glow and the soft and graceful exit of the sacred winter sun.
This morning i walked outside and saw two mourning doves in the trees. There was also an uncharacteristically quiet blue jay flying about. It was early, the mist was rising from the snow. The sky was a light grey that contrasted with the tree silhouettes; nearly brutal in its definition.
“Snowflakes are not made for solitude; each, with outflung arms, tangles and meshes with its neighbor; over time, they compress, become ice. But ice is mutable, even in the deepest cold. Inside a glacier, pressure and affinity will melt ice at temperatures far below freezing, so that two pieces, in contact with each other, melt and refreeze as one.”