At Rest

Everything is so pretty covered in thick snow, like a cake piled with frosting. The roads are clear now, after the blizzard last week, but the ice and frigid temps continue. Eventually everything will be brown muck and slush, but I shall savor the sunlit, frost-glazed, snow-laden trees under crisp blue skies, the powdery drifts blanketing cars, houses, and patio furniture, the subzero air that burns my lungs and nostrils and eyeballs. The brightness beckons me out into the magic of winter where everything looks different, beauty heightened. Such a peaceful stillness thrills me even if I am cooped up cozily in my wonderful home, with tea and books to my heart’s content. No mosquitoes, lessened allergies, and layers and layers of my favorite apparel: sweaters, hats, scarves, fingerless gloves, wooly slippers. Baking without making the house a sauna, the smell of wood smoke, savory soups, and cuddling with my loves are all entirely better in the winter. I have no doubt that I am in the right place, none at all.

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