The Winter

This frozen tundra of existence, the purest horizon of trees pale with frost, laden and white with snow, I think this death more beautiful than life. The tree survives to bud anew, but the moment of that regeneration can never match this frozen pallor of beauty. In nature's end is found more than my eyes can bear without tears, frozen prisms that cannot diffract this atmosphere. And the sky, ah the sky, that white blanket of beauty shrouds the earth 'round, moves the shadow into oblivion. The darkest day brings the truest sunrise, but nary a sunset. All beauty is amplified with the frost. Nature flourished in its green, in its crimson, the rose is most beautious frosted and dewed. As the rose, so emotion, forever frozen, forever beautiful. Forever ideal. To meet this plane, misted and crystallized o'er with earth's tears, is that apex to which all life must aspire only to find dissolution. Ashes to ashes, elixir to ice.