Call Winter a road if you will, a Silk Road of a sort, like I do.
I love the winter snow,
and all the children do with it.
And in the same, childlike way, Winter’s a passage for me. Solitudinous.
An escape through silence, science, sculpture, scripture, and all the other forms of art.
A passage through darkness and discovery into a Spring of creation.
Not dreary.
Not depressing or disgusting.
But deceptive. Like a forest path. In a da Vinci or Dylan Thomas way of thinking.
In a mind boarded up, thoughtful way of thinking.
In a Dalí way.
In a surrealistic artist’s way of thinking and renewal.
Until the first voice of Spring is heard.
The delicate snowdrops.
They remind me of you on my path.
Not the path itself.
You’re not the lonely path itself,
but the respite along the way.
The breath of Spring that makes the journey doable.
Thank you for being just you.
Just sweet snowdrops.
