A wistful wait for winter
Everyone celebrates spring's emergence, and yearns for long summer days, we’ve even taken to the pleasures of fall, and I understand why, I too love me a hearty pumpkin. However, that love hardly ever extends into winter. This is where I come in and tell you that I, in fact, do adore wintertime. Capturing the cold beauties of this arctic interlude has always been a delight for me, even when I’m shivering in my boots to do so.
What may seem distant at first really feels purer up close. All the leaves gone, the ground rendered its most bare, and fields blanketed with the freshness of new snow. Some may not see the sublime in these landscapes, or microcosmic snaps because of how barren it all can look, but I find a stripped earth its own unique pleasure and far more compelling. There’s nothing flashy about ruddy mountain steps, but there is an honesty. Winter makes you work for its wonders.
Ice is so dramatic, sparkling its precarious slippery slopes in the moonlight, or gleaming out in the morning sun. I find myself beguiled by the rigidity in its structure, but the smoothness of its texture. If winter had limbs surely ice would be its skeleton, reaching out in frosty invitation of the wintery world it locks away inside its icicles.
Winter is a feast for the eyes as much as summer is, just a little more unadorned. The modesty of its vistas belie the intricacies in how they’re formed. The chill forcing us to be the ones to reflect and rely upon our own inner warmth to carry us through.
