winter
I was looking out the windows on the old sleeping porch today when my mom and I were moving 9 year old storage. Barren trees against a watercolor sky are beautiful, but not warm-smiled like summer foliage. Bright colors and unfiltered sunshine, or deep living indigo night skys with a van gogh moon claim more of beauty than white ice and delicate frozen spider's webs only because they are assertive of their worth. They draw my eye to their form, away from the simplicity and elegance of a white line. Winter waits for you to notice it and isn't ruffled if you fail to do so at all. Brilliant color demonstrates life and youth. Death can be beautiful, all ends can be beautiful, but never desirable. I don't wish for winter or its sedated nonchalance. I enjoy it.
Still it seems wrong somehow. I could draw a number of metaphors, most contradicting the rest. Winter seems like such an adult thing to love, and I'm obviously not an adult.
Still it seems wrong somehow. I could draw a number of metaphors, most contradicting the rest. Winter seems like such an adult thing to love, and I'm obviously not an adult.