Winter Birth and Ice Nymph


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Views from my Study window.

The world is precariously beautiful today, grass shivered and silvered with frost’s finest brush, iced by Winter Sprite’s sure hand; a brittle under-sheet of green bides its time, its beauteous nymph ready to raunch and roister in Sun’s strong arms, in the mating ritual of thaw and melt, eager to receive the fiery God’s morning seed.

Clouds of smoke, from individual hearth fires, drift and dream across the sky, mingling with the powerful signatures of early jets autographing their destinies upon the firmament’s vast book of distant lands.

The world waits. For Spring. For the sweet furry stickiness of new buds. For the hope of Sap’s rising. For growth and baby animals trembling in nests, upon hillsides, in warrens, setts, dells and cocoons. For the child of the Vernal Equinox to be pushed lusty from the giant veined and vibrating womb of Winter.

And I wait with it, tears streaming down my cheeks as sorrow finds its expression, joins the rhynes of human loss, laments the necessary passing of a cold dark spell and looks, with fear and a frisson of excitement, at the dawning of a new Sun – awaits the time of heart-thaw, free-flow and burgeoning abundant green.

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