Winter is not a season,
it’s an occupation.
Winter is the path before us now, it stretches past the bitter, growing ice mountains of January right through the impatient boredom of February then trudges on into the out right cabin fever of March. Winter marches on. Winter is relentless.
Winter is also diffident with a nacreous, quiet beauty that sits a peaceful counter to summer’s effulgent bravado. The very air about us is opalescent with ice crystals that shine back in pastel rainbow colors and our paths turn pearly lilac in the dusk.
It does have it’s wonders, this Winter.
Sinclair Lewis had it nailed.