The winter of one's discontent....

I plucked the journal from a shelf in Mother Nature's library....

It was a large book... and it was heavy.... but its title was intriguing!

I opened the massive volume, and slowly turned the pages... crisp white, blank pages stared back at me... waiting for a story to unfold...

... but, where was the story; must I write it myself... must I look for the words, build the characters, create the events... write the poem.... pen the tune....

...and how would it be told... how would it be sung?

Would anyone even read it or listen to it... or would they slam it shut and put it back on the shelf to collect dust, wishing they had never laid eyes upon it....

Picking up an old inky fountain pen, and with a flourish, the first etches were laid down, like a sprinkling of frost crystals scattered across a clear pane of glass, lending their sparkle to these otherwise cold and dank pages... covering the white blanket of nothingness with a flurry of colour.

...it was indelible ink... and acidic enough to scratch the canvas, leaving a permanent mark on anyone who would take in the story being told.... and it was blue and it was green and it was yellow and it was red!

The words flowed and I could see beauty before me, visions dancing in my head, creating sweet haunting music like bow to a violin.

My eyes wandered off the page and rested upon the glowing embers of a fireplace, in the corner of a small room, bearing the last vestiges of the previous evening's sup... it had been a delicious meal, warm and hearty and it had nurtured my body... hunger satiated, now it was time to nurture my soul.

I turned to the window, marvelling as the sun glinted off the snowy white mounds of marshmallow dreams, begging for me to leave my footprint, make a mark, interrupt the white sweetness that rested as far as my eyes could see... waiting to be disturbed... waiting to be written upon.

It was a staggering journal, seemingly endless, and the crisp white pages appeared to go on forever... when will it end, how will it end... how will I find the words to fill it.... will I grow bored with its blankness, do I need to fill in all the white spaces, look for something colourful to adorn the pages....

...but why the need to erase the stark whiteness, fill it with colour, hide its penetrating coldness... rid it from our sight...

...words and poems and songs appeared daily, written across the pages.... memories made... some written by me, some written for me... I cannot rush this journal for it is not mine to rush...

... it is but a journal, from Mother Nature's library... and only she will allow it to end....

...and such is her journal, Sweet Winter's Lament.

Happy life!