As spring dawns, as the sun rises and the trees shake their torpor, as the clouds give way to light and the bare earth to flowers and grasses and life, I mourn winter's passing, her demise. And yet hope still lives... I look forward to her onset, to her remorseless grip on the world. I look forward to the crunch of snow beneath my feet, to the frozen earth supporting me against the bitter sky. Anticipation and longing beat within my heart, at her inevitable embrace, at her endless kiss, bright and cold on my lips, her breath igniting the awareness of life inside me.
Mine is the long night, the howl of wind and bite of ice. Mine is the silent morning, alone on a beach, the freezing fog my companion, my wall, my very isolation.
In the mountains a tarn sings softly, ice and snow a blanket to her slumber. The wind swirls like a thousand knives, slicing my flesh and my breath with a surgeon's precision. Snow falls with gentleness, delicate moments on my eyelashes and my cheeks, the mana from a goddess' immutable dreams, hail her nightmare's get. Clouds boil with slow intent, potent with portent, with unimaginable potential.
Some days the sky has banished the billowing crones, bright and blue and endless in her gaze, eternity staring into fragile mortality. My breath steams into clouds, silent offerings fading into the light. These are the days for mountain summits, for clifftops and clambering amongst sand dunes by the shore. Standing alone, complete in her touch.
Raging winds and savage snow, battering and vocal in their glee, are for mountain ridges, treacherous and perilous, ice-slicked and contorted with the weight of terror, with the ferocity of winter's displeasure. These are the careful steps, the pilgrim's way, each movement, each stride a puja for her grace. This is the balanced dance, the ownership of self; the test of will and intent against her relentless fury, each moment sacred in its duality, in its mutual rapture.
I look forward to her chilled embrace, to her bitter kiss, to breath stolen and heat poached with her every fickle touch; to her raging wars and her brutal battles, to her silent peace and her calming touch. I look forward to colours muted, to the ceaseless white, to a world made colder, torpid and ancient.
I look forward to winter come.