Spring; how empty of a house she was, in which the shutters were closed and the garden was withered and how dark it was, how cold it was, so she planted a seed said "there" as if that were supposed to keep the shade from creeping back in. But the sun refused to shine and the rivers all wept themselves dry, but still, she whispered, "Let it be, let it be," and how wild it was to let it be; how wild and dangerous of an idea! but they let it be and let it be. And the seed, how it grew; how it grew like wildfire, how it swept the shutters from the walls, and the sun, how it came back! and it laid down beside her and it kissed the salt from her eyes. And how sweet it was, how light it was. How light, how sweet, how soft. How so very spring.
Spring, winter; this is my favorite transition. To watch the world rise from ashes, all anew. To see the sun, no less than moon. Balance. I always seem to convince myself that the snow will never end; perpetual winter. It's not true. We live in a world on the precipice of being. We are constantly becoming, becoming, becoming.