The Soul of Winter
I love fall and the winter. I can honestly say that it is probably my favorite time. There is just something about that time of year that just makes me happier than the rest. I think of bonfires and hayrides. Chilly nights and calm breezes. Leaves on the ground. Snow. Just thinking of it now makes me miss it. It is, however, August. We are getting close.
I found this when I was looking through some of my older materials, and since I have been thinking of winter, I thought I would share it with you.
The Soul of Winter (Circa 2012)
The morning air is frigid and fierce. It hits you like a hurricane as you walk outside. Clouds roll though the sky blocking out the suns blasphemous rays. Darkness covers the countryside, as the birds call from the heavens, rushing for the warm south. Everyone is home. Everyone is warm and comfortable, save you. Leaves slowly fall, nestling their crisp frail bodies on the nearest frozen surface. Time is still.
Everything is still. Waiting.
Capturing the cold air through your nose, and expelling the breath with a puff of a what seems to be smoke. Too long and your fingers begin to go numb. Nose, ears, are already there. Something is coming. Your heart leaps as the first small flake slowly caresses its way through the sky, coming to a still on the palm of your frozen outstretched hand. Quickly melting away, you sigh. Then another, from seemingly the heavens, follows the same path.
Time is of the essence. Too many days and things will fade to clear skies. Melting snow gives way to green grass and feathered trees. You walk slow, sure to grasp every single moment of winter. Glancing to the left you see impressions in the ground such as the fallen angels may have made. To the right, your neighbor cursing as he scrapes the troublesome ice off of his windshield. You opt to walk, for this will only be but a season. A frame of time in your life.
People watch from the warm houses, as you push through the snow, barley noticing your toes losing feeling. You are home. This white wilderness is yours. Time stands still as you simply watch the snow falling, landing with ease on the ground. The holes you feet have made filling up behind you as you walk. You may lose your way back, but the pull of your heart allows that thought to lapse. You cannot lose your way back from home.
Laying down, atop a hill, letting the snow hit your face at its own grace. Minutes pass. Hours. Staring at the sky, wishing this to last forever. Night begins to fall as you make your way back. Passing those in their homes who have never really lived.
Kicking your shoes off at the door, you make first for the hot chocolate on the stove, sipping it slowly not to burn yourself. Hot in your hand, yet the season it remains. Curling up at the bay window in the front room, aside the crackling fire in the hearth, you stare longingly out the window. Your heart is warm with happiness, yet your soul left you at the door, he longs to wonder the wilderness as a vagabond.
In the morn you will meet again. A love stronger than a prayer. You hold hope for the next day waiting to meet your other half in the snow amongst the naked trees. Alone but not. A paradise. Forever he awaits you. You and only you. You are the body which holds the bloom of winter. You are the hope of a new day.
Ever to wait in the wilderness for his true love in the snow. Holding onto the moment whence he will see your bright face. Waiting.
Never leaving. Always with you.
Stephan J. Hahn