I love Winter. I love everything about it: I love the short days and the long nights, the crisp morning air and its frosty bites, the bare branches and the cawing crow crisscrossing the terse sky.
Again and again, when I look around, I am reminded of the sharp edge of beauty that cuts through the heart like a knife.
Winter is a bottomless well where water is always fresh.
I was born in Winter. Maybe, that is why I feel so attuned to its mood. The minimalist geometries of Winter delight me; they spur my imagination to plunge into unknown regions.
I love looking at the small frozen puddles at the sides of the country paths, the last wizened, skeletal leaves scattered on the ground, the sound of silence, a vast, deep current crossing and enveloping the Universe.
Winter comes every time with jingles and good intentions, cinnamon scent, and little shiny gifts.
A month in, Winter shows its fangs like a wild animal's.
So many have the blues; blackbirds hop from shrub to shrub, in search of warmth.
In February though, something shifts. All things young and tender emerge from the wintry blanket: fawns, snowdrops, and a few patches of new grass.
The raw side of love shows up everywhere, in the countryside, in the narrow urban courtyard where a tree thrusts its branches against the sky, as well as in relationships.
Sluggishness makes our joints and nerves stiff.
We need to warm up hands and hearts and mull over scented wine.
The fire prattles on in the hearth, and our cheeks redden in its glow.
I seldom switch on artificial lights in my house.
I prefer the flickering flame of a candle or a tongue of fire blazing up in the fireplace all of a sudden, with dancing sylphs and salamanders.
I half-close my eyes and gaze through the curtain of habit. If I am lucky, my eyes and my mind pierce through the invisible wall and I break on through to the other side, where silence is music, cups are damsels with big gowns and portraits smile and wink.
Winter protects the child within, giving her time to dream and sleep.