Summer cast its last bit of warmth before vanishing behind winters chill. Darkness now commands the morning, lingering long past its welcome, holding daylight captive under an ebony cover. When finally it releases its grasp, day is allowed to awaken. Slivers of light flicker through charcoal clouds, its muted brilliance our only joy.
What beauty has winter that summer cannot surpass? Do dark clouds, heavy and low, offer the beauty of an August sun? Dew covered meadows show white with delicate lace, but soon fade with no reward but its passing.
We wait for spring rains first touch upon the land, the scented dirt assuring us it will return. When tender blades of new grass adorn the fields and lupine cover the valley, our hearts will rejoice in winters passing. Again the sun will caress the earth; songs of praise will float on fresh air, and we will again know the splendor of summer… after the silent snow has past.
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