The slow, slow ascent (or is it descent?) towards Spring. Wavering, then stumbling, grinding to a standstill, numb and frozen, cancelled. The frost abides, victorious, with arms outstretched and fangs agleam. Its’ triumphant howl echoes across the desolate landscape, I came and I truly conquered and everything you dared to hope for now lies motionless under a mass of ice.

What a change from the mild-mannered and polite start of December.

We have these winters to emphasize the inevitable and proper summers, I know, although their inevitability has been questionable to certain extent, and not-for-granted-at-all for the past couple of years. Nothing questionable about this here winter we writhe in the grip of right now though. The temperature has stayed well below zero non-stop for the last 50 or so days, with no sign of relenting, and the amount of snow has entered the realm of ridiculous and cannot be comprehended anymore, let alone measured by normal humanly means. This must be the type of proper winter our grandparents so fondly misrecall whenever someone seems to be listening, of the kind they used to have, and effortlessly endured, at least several a year in their time, and I hate it, verily and fervently and by now without exception. The first week of stabbing coldness was even slightly exotic, in a way, but the novelty soon wore off, and now it’s just unbearable and apparently neverending.

 It’s easy to slip into believing this will never pass. The days are brighter and longer now, whiter, but also fiercer and mutilatingly cold. How could something of this magnitude cease? Maybe there’s never been a Spring and it’s only a distorted memory, of a foolish dream.