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originally written in January or February 2011; going through my drafts and trashing most but the lyrical, albeit depressing, nature of this post has me publishing it now, months later.
The landscape is bleak; even the valiant snowdrops’ promise of bird song is muted and dull. No warmth radiates up from the semi-frozen ground.
Wind whirls desiccated leaves and seed husks. The yard is dirt and brown grass as if no light even pierced the dark confines.
The stark bare trees bend sideways, outlined against a leaden sky. Snow flakes scuttle past blurring with the ashen horizon.
Depression and pain are barren wastelands; no color, no life, no promise of spring. There is no faint scent of reborn life; no earthy tang of warming ground.
All remains in lifeless patterns broken only by the gusts of icy winds. All is silent; all is sadness.
Spring does have that reborn and new feeling about it. That’s why I love snowdrops so much — they are brave enough to peak their heads through the snow in January and February. When we lived on a farm, winter was more fun because we could go out the front door, put on cross country skis and go exploring. Also, eagles and hawks would perch in the trees behind the house. Those winters I miss; winters elsewhere, not so much.
Why is it that expressions of pain are so often the most beautiful?
Despite the absence of a feeling that spring is coming, even the mention of it (as lacking) is somehow promising. Sometimes, just remembering that life can be better is as good as it gets.