It’s reflected in all we say, how we think, and our daily actions.

I’m left to wonder what function does a dilapidated barn serve.  Does it house the old and decrepit livestock waiting to die?  Perhaps its a sanctuary for all types of rodentia and feral felines during the harsh winter months.

I just can’t seem to capture the snowfall the way I intend to.  The largess of the storm as it gives away its precipitation with out seeing its benefits.  The mass of the flakes as they descend in what seems like hours of free fall.  The cold as it rushes into your lungs warning you to stay indoors with your television and hot chocolate.

We can’t call it a tundra yet but we’re close.  If only the permafrost would move south for the winter we’d have endless winter, and much less notable an endless summer in our planet’s southern hemisphere.

It happens.  And when it does we pick it up, dispose of it and move on.  Just can’t take it personal.  It’s life.  It’s the way of the world.  Sometimes its on you and sometimes you’re dropping it on others.  Just please remember to wash your hands.

It looks at me with disdain.  “Why’d you let the ice grow on me?” it asks.  “You could’ve fired me up for a great winter barbeque.”  It’s lowered eyes inflict a grave feeling of guilt in me.  I brush the snow off it its lid and promise we’ll hang out when spring comes around.

Shadows take the place of foliage.  Snow replaces grass.

Exothermic reactions make no effort to warm my house.  Instead they choose to paint the garage windows with scarce a hope of getting their artistic recognition.  Starving artists indeed.

Feed and fed more and more.

Every aspect of my daily scenes are transformed by the blinding light of the snow.  Even the dead, forgotten flower heads still loitering around in my garden adorn themselves in snow’s cold embrace.