You lost, Old Winter. You lost your fight to drag me down and beyond the bottom of that bottomless pit. You know the one: the one where I am floundering in the blackness of despair.
I kept glancing over my shoulder last Autumn to see if you were lurking somewhere, waiting to pounce. Then came your “official” start. And, by November, the nights had begun to draw in and the mornings were taking longer to show their dawns.
In that month, too, the snows came – which was your first mistake. The sheer whiteness made even the dark nights glow brighter. The daytime scenes were uplifting, too: sheets of white, undulating fields with mountains looking like iced cakes.
Yes, it was cold, but one can clad oneself against that. And the starkness of bare trees was made tolerable by your snow-scenes.
Perhaps it was my never-smiling primary school headmistress who made me wary of your whiles. She did it by accident, telling a class the lie that, in your season, the whole countryside was dead. She was not even on nodding terms with Mother Nature.
Touches of green – not only grass – grace your “dead” season. Holly and ivy and fir help me through. Even tiny plants put out a few new leaves. I welcome their help. Indeed, I look forward to seeing their greens despite my trepidation.
And now, in very early March, though frosts still come, the sun adds to your defeat. The daylight bathes the land and bathes me earlier and earlier; the nights are drawing out. Dear Spring cannot be far away.
You lost, Old Winter. I am safe.