A hyperbolic letter to winter....

It is time again to calm the garish light of the day and roll the noon softly but swiftly into twilight. It is time again the flocks of starlings animate in an every changing patterns of black dots against a perfectly placid grey sky. It is time again to wake up and see the beautiful contrast of brown groud separated from the olive shoots of grass by a murky layer of white mist. And it is time again when the ruffling of the leaves play in the foreground on a low crescendo of the cold wind. Winter, you have arrived finally. It is time to gaze out of the window into the misty ambience with a cup of hot chocolate in mittened hands and watch the stream make abstract motifs- ever so dainty and ever so shifting like flowing white charcoal patterns blended on a grey canvas. And at night the street lamps have begun casting their copper glow on the misty crisp air, glistering like pearls ringed with a soft corona around them. The streets below are often wet these days and answer the street lamps with their flickering distorted reflection, almost as if playfully taunting their light. Streets are becoming emptier and hushed, and only occasionally are the sounds of distinct footsteps breaking the calm ambience - almost like a mischievous twist to the peaceful harmony of the wind. By the street side, toasted chestnuts are being sold in paper cones and the woody smell of their burning shells scent the brittle air.  It almost smells festive. Oh, winter you are so beautiful, each year, just as you come.

In memory of a beautiful winter storm in Syracuse, New York

But, I remember the last winter-- I saw you younger- more dramatic, more impassioned, cloaked in the glamour of the icy diamonds. You oftentimes heaped the dust of shimmering snowflakes on the ground, flawlessly contrasting a matt dusky sky, seldom intervened by darker cloudy trims. Your wind used to bellow jubilant trumpets in polyphony like a mystical coral, pronounced yet agile as if filled with a myriad of mummers, in a much crispier air. Now the fallen leaves just rattle against the floor and you don't swing their colours in dynamic arcs amidst the vertical swirls of snow anymore. Neither have you come embellished with the black ravens perched on the ash-grey barks of those slender leafless trees, standing tall in the wilderness of rolling white hills. Grounds no longer reflect the pale light of the moon and glow a soft shade of pink with exiguous glimmering patches - like embedded opals in white fur - where the snow froze to ice. And the rooftops are bare and un-curtained with laces of icicles. You were then fierce and enchanting, yet incredibly harmonious and serene. This year I see you much tamer, much mellower and calmer like you have grown older- bringing forth a completely changed and aged essence. And yet, I must admit, while I miss your older pluvial style beyond what I can ever pen on papers, you still are graceful and dactylic, even as you wear your milder vogue.