Winter:
swirling snow and crystal laced trees. This is the season of dreaming. Life
seems to pause when the snow falls, and the only signs of life are trails of
smoke from chimneys. Dreams are born in the quietness. Dreams that dance and
take up existence of their own: when all else lays in silence. Snow covered
fields pose as canvases to be dotted with footprints of those brave enough to
venture outside. Each step leaves a clear mark, reflections of the past. The
imprints are quickly filled, with a fresh outpouring. The world waits, it rests,
it heals. The dreams of winter. The world waits – sealed in whiteness.
From my archives (Jan 7th, 2007)
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