MOUNDS
How could three days of rain be followed by a foot of snow? You could actually smell spring in the air for a bit, that muddy, melting dog shot smell that is as welcome as it is disgusting. The roads had turned to rivers and now it was though it had never happened.
It seemed inconceivable, but it was the same thing every year. You’d see stocky men walking around in shorts for a couple days, then back to burly parkas and back pain.
Winter could be a beautiful time, but like your favourite old aunt, it had a tendency of overstaying its welcome and never quite realizing when enough was truly enough. As much as he purports to be a benefactor of beauty, I would assume that even a guy like Hugh Hefner needs some time away from the wiles of woman.
Like all things truly beautiful, the appeal fades when you are constantly exposed. And the thing with winter is that she is not just a beautiful mistress who passes by once a year. She lays her roots, insinuates herself into every aspects of your existence. She brings the cold loneliness like no other mistress before her.
Winter tempts you with her soft, white mounds, but she will be the first to watch you break. She will sweep you off your feet with her slippery surfaces, and catch the very breath in your chest with her cool embrace.
Winter is the ultimate temptress and deceiver. She paves your world in diamonds, wipes the world clean, and just as you finally appreciate her insulating caress, she leaves you once more in a fetid wet world of mud and filth.
There is no mistress like her, and no greater manipulator. Even with the invigorating arrival of spring and the warm laziness of summer, you know that she is planning her return. Somewhere, right around the crackling corner of autumn, she waits to pounce.
She will be gone soon. It is only a matter of weeks. And just when you least expect it, she will announce her return with a cold white dusting of frosty mascara over the harvested fields.
Ever the cold-hearted calculator.
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