On Winter

The sun shines dully behind the dense haze of clouds.  One might mistake it for a shrouded full moon except that the clouds diffuse the light across its breadth, forming a smooth, grey-white barrier to the heavens that teases us with the hope of moisture, which the meteorologists pessimistically discredit.  A dusting of old snow still lays over the dessicated grass like a sprinkling of powdered sugar, but the land makes an unappetizing cake--perhaps more like a gingerbread landscape left sitting out all year: a novelty at first, but the pretty green bits have been nibbled away, and it's now too ugly to hold our attraction and is soon ignored.  

Unfortunately, pedestrians cannot ignore the wind that whisks heat from exposed skin and makes it soon redden in the bitter chill.  Walking a mere block even in full winter regalia feels miserable to exposed cheeks and noses, and should one venture farther, the cold quickly eats through one's thinnest fabrics to gnaw fingers and thighs and toes till they grow numb.  In consequence, exercise is more comfortable indoors, assuming one can find the will for it since easier heat can be found by baking or reading by a vent--or better yet, napping under a 50-pound pile of blankets and comforters.

Readers have surely fathomed (if they did not already know) my sentiments on the subject of winter: despite the wintery “charms” that some extoll--and that even I see in glistening ice and unblemished snow (when I don’t have to travel in them)--I wouldn’t complain if I never again stepped into below-sixty-degree weather or saw the hibernating land take on such a death-like pall.  The day we can throw this unsightly gingerbread landscape in the trash cannot come too soon.