The Color of Winter: Chapter 1

The Color of Winter

In winter, I can feel the bones of the world, the bare trees, the stone, the ice. In winter, I get a true sense of color. The sun glaring on the snow, the bottomless black of the trees, and the sky, changing ever from twilight to rose, grey to gold, white to black. In winter I feel that the sky is nearer than at other times. Space, stars, and the void of heaven itself are not so far from reach now. The sun is stronger, burning like white hot metal each day, and wearing veils of purple, pale crimson, gold, and lime green as it rises and sets. The moon has no clock. It goes where it wishes, rising round and white as bone at night, or floating like a wanderer, light and transparent as spider silk, careful not to drown in the sunrise. There are nights in winter when there is no moon, and only the stars remain, burning cold and distant and lonely. The birds black as silhouettes against the setting sun, call their praises to the lovely arrogant winter, though she pretends not to hear them. Her ice flows across the world, freezing into contours and razor edges, where the loving sun adores them, drowning in them, making them sparkle. Though some claim that now the world is dead, in winter, I am alive.