Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Looking through the windows at the dark and cold scenery outside, one may wonder how this time of the year may ever be loved. But loved it is indeed, by memories, which somehow are the determining coefficients for all emotion.
Thick layers of snow, skiing, the time of angelic figures and self-painted hearts in the crystallised water — winter time is finally here right in front of our red-glowing noses. And yet we ignore it, shielding ourselves in thickest layers of social-proof clothing which provides a contemplative warmth.
Passing through the streets, one may meet people entangling themselves in the production of snowballs or see the classic lonely figure sitting on the window sill staring at the falling snowflakes. It is only now at this time that we realise the precipitation is something falling down, the end of a voyage of the chameleonic substance of simple water, before another loop may start again, destroying not only the dangerous adamant snow that may fall from the rooftops but also the lively snowmen (and snowwomen of course) that have been produced in so many first encounters with the all-so-different state of water in nature.
This time is the time of contemplation indeed, increasing darkness replacing the lost brightness with an innermost light that one may look upon and analyse. The time of self-compilation and tree-hugging, of watching the past instead of awaiting the future, of mindless work and turkey eating, and finally, of nature’s most subtle wonders.