As delicate as the morning dew;
An angel's dusting from the stars
that can turn the Earth into
A frosted moon."
I have always marveled at the calm winter brings.
The snow spreads as far as the eye can see, a vastness of white. No real movement stirs the forest as I look outwards. Tall evergreens are dusted with the new snow. A doe steps out, quietly...
The large brown eyes face me, for a split second, and then the deer dashes away. The only telltale sign of her coming, the punctured snow.
Out... somewhere... her mate is in the forest, a great buck. When winter comes, she will give birth to a fawn. And then to complete the metaphor, I shall have to kill all but the youngest.
Fresh venison.
I sigh, partly from melencholy, and partly from disgust.
Winter plays an odd trick on my mind. When the first snow falls I find my anger and rage fading into gloom and sadness. With the first frost lonliness hits me hard, and I begin to wonder if my choices were really worth my pain. I wonder, and the more I ponder, the more a quiet, normal life becomes appealing.
In fall, my last tempest of fury comes, and in spring it quietly ebbs its way to me again.
But in this winter's calm, I am tempted... It would not hurt the world if I was a traitor again, would it?
The winter's calm is taking its toll on my supposed sanity.
I pray for spring.
As delicate as the morning dew;
An angel's dusting from the stars
that can turn the Earth into
A frosted moon.
What can it be, oh what can it be?
