Winter White

It has been a time sought after, longed for, when my thoughts would not thicken, coagulate, mire themselves on the interior. It is perhaps sought after still, after the pages just seem to seap into the inside, like so much cold air entering through porous granite, so easy to enter and so resistant to escape. Cold air does not have a solution except for heat, movement, and great distance from reprieve, from the star that mercifully ajoins this planet, is so far, all this sleepfulness and shattering temperature, icy stare of the gnarled branches outside. There is no consistency to winter as there is none as thoughts diminish upon sleep, only wavering light, the heartrending disappearnce of light. Light, light and more light. It is wintrous bulbs, crystals of light cascading above city streets, upon store fronts and in the midnight of consciousness, the excitement of a humanity that seeks refuge in winter, we are ecstatic in our woolen clothes, bright and sometimes opulent colours, the warmth of what we have made and how it looks aside a death stricken landscape. Death, death, and the wild howl of air as it pierces the weathervanes and high steeples of cathedrals, down to the frosty gothic figurines peering out into the closing scent of forest, mildewed barns and once burgeoning fields bereft of light, thinly wimpering out the words: rest, rest, world won't you quietly fade for a few months and retreat into comforting calm, peaceful dark. The absence of light recalls the purest of white, how snow and ice crystals are not bereft but of every colour. How white embodies kaleidoscopic palettes of evrythy hue, only in the quiet and still we cannot see it without weaving it into cardigans, soft hued Icelandic weaves imprinted with tender signals of bluish grey, colours so far in the distance now, and yet the shapes of summer harnessed and tinkling towards celebration. A festival in the impenetrable white, of all imaginable colour. How sound resolves itself into mute, how colour accumulates into all, that blank canvas invites all the gradients of springtime, and a winter offers repose to the colours that have long disappeared, yellowish oranges crisp and tustled so vast away from the dappled whites, summer yellows, undressing the oceans of green into floral festivity. Are we lost in the rush and roar, the need to break the ice and hold winter hostage away from its remiscence, its ruminative silence. Would not the colours drift, slowly, fading time. Bundled neat and safe, only paving the way for the most acute movement, and yet it is more than we need, and what we might be offered in silence, in circumspect overtures that allow us to hold what we have, search into ourselves, see the miracle of moving water, breaking streams, the usefulness of gradient, of the remotest regions of scale.