Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The days are closing in as we approach the shortest day of the year. The drive home at the end of a long day is grey and bleak. As much as I love the start of autumn and the explosions of colour that comes with it, the end of fall and the beginnings of winter is a more subtle transition, one that slowly creeps in like a stealthy thief in the dark of night.
It is cold, but not unwelcomed. The clawing tendrils of a certain chill - the kind of chill that seeps into the bone and makes itself at home. I drink more coffee, as if I don't already drink copious amounts of it. It keeps me warm, fortifies me against the onslaught of invisible fingers, grasping, reaching, threatening to pull me under, into its ice kingdom.
There is a certain beauty to this season. I love it almost as much as I love autumn and its colours. I love the way it reflects my soul - that barrenness, that coldness, that bleakness. The way it slips in so quietly, so silently. It needs no loud words but it speaks to me. The nakedness of the trees reveal its truth, its structure - skeletal, but intricate. A breathless kind of beauty. A secret agony, a hidden pain.
But beautiful. Beautiful in its own twisted way.