Winter Writings: Day 70

On this last day of February, bleak, gray clouds tumble and turn in the wind like tattered rags, scrubbing the color from the sky. All living things huddle in whatever shelter they can find, to escape the constant drill of rain. I hurry to the car, dodging the sting of a hundred icy needles sown by the wind against my skin dreaming of hot tea and a warm fire. I watch the river boil with white capped crones screaming words of encouragement to the storm and dream of turquiose sky, white beaches and hot summer sun. Where is my spring?

But even as I dream of warmth and comfort, the rain becomes snow, and the land which looked so desperate for spring just a moment before, becomes a jeweled wonderland...a Christmas card scene of wish you were here. Even in the gloom, the snow sparkles with the light of thousand diamonds and perches precariously on every tree limb. I step cautiously from the car to take a few photos of pristine white and suspend my longing for spring begrudgingly for the stunning beauty of fresh snow. I carefully look both ways to be sure I am alone and suspend adulthood in exchange for a few stolen moments dancing in the snow and catching flakes on my tongue for a taste of magic.

But the growing darkness soon hurries me homeward to find my own warm nest to shelter in. After all, this is no day to wander the woods while winter makes a last desperate stand against the advancing promise of spring.