SB LACROIX

The snow gently falls outside my window as my fingers sit idle on the keyboard. I can’t seem to take my eyes off its falling white powder.  By February the snow, while always beautiful, is not all together desirable. Winter drags on and the cold becomes bitter.

I miss the warm weather, the rain, and the colors that can be seen in other seasons. Winter is void of color, bleak, and cold. It is a sleeping death that becomes a heavy weight, yet it is one of my favorite times. The sleeping death of winter is a blanket in which I wrap myself, snuggled in with a melancholic mood that is persistent. It is a somber and weighted feeling, but I choose it nonetheless.

The snowflakes, so light and graceful, dance to a silent song. I dive into my melancholy and savor every moment of its sweet sadness. I swim in the waters of sorrow and know I am alive, despite the sleeping death that surrounds me.

Somewhere it is warm. Somewhere the sun shines. Somewhere there is color, but here winter presses on. The earth remains in her death-like state. Within a few months she will wake, be reborn, and breathe glorious colors that are a delight to behold. Until then, nature is graced with an offering of white that clings to bare trees and covers everything in a chilling, deep sleep.        

From my book: Shattered