It’s winter now, but all of my thoughts are on the coming spring.
After stones and stones have fallen, the snow will rise up to the earth shadowing clouds—whence it came. Thereafter will life too rise up from its seasonal slumber. There will be new mothers and children. There will be deep greens and pink squinting eyes. Life will bloom.
Too weak to withstand the winter winds, some will die, and the allmother will call them back—whence they came.
And so winter is a time to keenly gaze within. I look myself inside and ask what lies therein: will i—too? Will i run strongly beneath the white and blue, and among the green? Will i stumble into black, unseen?
The playwrights of the heavens died when i looked up with searing eyes and saw them not. I myself must shape what is for me to come.
Now blows the wind, stinging the cheeks and making the nose raw. In the cold white the feet are numb, the hands unfeeling. But here i stand—and i choose to overcome it all. In winter i will not fall.
