Winter is beautiful in the way only Winter can be. It stands in defiance of what we expect beauty to be. It is not warm, welcoming, or enticing. It is not tactile in the way other season are. It does not invite us to touch, and when we do, we are met with cold, brittle sensations.
Not like Spring with joy bursting from every branch, shooting right out of the ground.
Not Summer, with juicy fruit, rich carpets of grass, cool shade from nurturing trees.
Not like Autumn, with wild parties of color, and leaves that dance across our path, inviting us to share in one last festival before the silence of the coming season.
Winter is severe, stark, and breathtaking. Beauty few can grasp, the few who do not sleep through the season in front of TV’s and computers, burrowed in their homes and offices.
It is there for those who dare to reach out and touch the fiery ice, who will allow themselves to be clothed in snow, who will hear the crunch of ice and snow, dead leaves and twigs as they walk in the woods, who hear sounds beyond the silence.
It is a hard beauty, and one that does not care if you join in or not. It is proud and unrelenting. Its beauty lies in the very force of life. Winter holds the seed for all the seasons to come and needs nothing to embellish its power.