I cannot help but complain in Winter. Try as I might to bite my tongue, while my heart races, and my teeth chatter. I begin to irrationally target the weather. As though my biting outbursts of objection will put an end to the cold. I want to be in it as little as possible, get to where I am going fast, or simply, not leave at all. My father is always telling me that I ought to be used to it by now, In fact, every time I voice a complaint in my shivering state, he lectures me under the snowfall, in his flip flops, and housecoat (mind you, taking his sweet time to unlock the passenger side) on how I have to face it, and accept it. Similar to how he tries to talk me into letting spiders crawl on my arms, it`s the only way I can diminish my irrational fears, ``They are just playing`` he says. My fathers favorite topic seems to be that of comparing the seasons to mans disposition. When I am in a terrible mood, he will say ``Don`t worry, the storm will pass``. To mope in winter, instead of embrace it, is like telling man to ignore his pain, despite all the beauty that comes from it.
Walk with winter, endure her
Winter
Let the cold Penetrate you
Let her anxiety, and bewilderment
Frigid, and accumulating
Disperse, and explore you
She is struggling, striving
To give birth to something new
Walk with winter, endure her
Straight into spring
And when the new
Is old, and dying
Wait for her return
She breathes heavily
And resuscitates
