Breathtaking Winter Landscapes

Then winter arrives, and for many this marks the beginning of a long wait until the first robin appears or the quietest crocus peeks out of the softening ground. Yet winter is not without its beauty. On a sunless day, the grays merge to form a somber and peaceful landscape. Think of the silhouette of a leafless tree. Its leafy abundance may be missing, but its beauty is still intact. For me, winter often serves up a wellspring of precious childhood memories packed with hours of sledding and big mugs of marshmallow- and whipped-cream-topped hot chocolate. What can you remember? How about a few magnificent snow days spent playing outdoors?

Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape—the loneliness of it—the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.

There is nothing in the world more beautiful than the forest clothed to its very hollows in snow. It is the still ecstasy of nature, wherein every spray, every blade of grass, every spire of reed, every intricacy of twig, is clad with radiance.

Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour.

Snowflakes are one of nature’s most fragile things, but just look what they can do when they stick together.

Of winter’s lifeless world each tree now seems a perfect part; yet each one holds summer’s secret deep down within its heart.

No one can look at a pine tree in winter without knowing that spring will come again in due time.

When the snow is still blowing against the window-pane in January and February and the wild winds are howling without, what pleasure it is to plan for summer that is to be.

During the winter I am content–or try to think I am–to make my head-quarters in town and to get fresh air and a broader outlook at intervals that are frequent, but still at intervals. Perhaps the walk or drive out to the frozen lake among the hills for an afternoon’s skating is the more keenly relished because of a busy week elsewhere. For all practical purposes nature is at a standstill. . . . There is a wonderful joy in leaving behind the noisy city streets and starting out along the white road that leads across the hills. With each breath of the sharp, reviving air one seems to inhale new life. A peace as evident as the sunshine on the fields takes possession of one’s inner being. The trivial cares which fretted like a swarm of mosquitoes are driven away

by the first sweep of wind that comes straight from the mountains. . . . The intense silence that broods over the snow-bound land is a conscious blessing. The deep blue of the sky and the purple shadows cast by the trees and plants are a feast to the eye. The crunch of the snow-rind beneath our feet and the varied hum of the telegraph wires overhead are music to our ears.

Everything is equal in the snow: all trees, all lawns, all streets, all rooftops, and all cars. Everything is white, white, white, as far as you can see. Covered by snow, the well-kept and neglected lawns look the same. The snow hides the shiny newness of a just-bought car as effectively as it does the rust and dents of a ten-year-old one. Everything looks clean and fresh and unmarred by time or use. Snow, like the silent death it counterfeits, is a great leveler.

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.

Winter Poem

Once a snowflake fell

on my brow and I loved

it so much and I kissed

it and it was happy and called its cousins

and brothers and a web

of snow engulfed me then

I reached to love them all

and I squeezed them and they became

a spring rain and I stood perfectly

still and was a flower.

There is privacy about it which no other season gives you. . . In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant:

if we did not sometimes taste of adversity,

prosperity would not be so welcome.

Winter is the king of showmen

Turning tree stumps into snow men

And houses into birthday cakes

And spreading sugar over lakes

Smooth and clean and frosty white

The world looks good enough to bite

That’s the season to be young

Catching snowflakes on your tongue

Snow is snowy when it’s snowing

I’m sorry it’s slushy when it’s going.

Every gardener knows that under the cloak of winter lies a miracle…

a seed waiting to sprout, a bulb opening to the light, a bud straining to unfurl.

And the anticipation nurtures our dream.

In a way Winter is the real Spring–the time when

the inner things happen, the resurgence of nature.

To see a hillside white with dogwood bloom is to know a particular

ecstasy of beauty, but to walk the gray Winter woods and find the

buds which will resurrect that beauty in another May

is to partake of continuity.

Chill air and wintry winds!

My ear has grown familiar with your song;

I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long.

Winter is a time of gray, velvet weather drifting towards us. It arrives

on "little cat feet" and curls itself around us like the fog in Sandburg’s poem.

The weather is a friend if you make it one. I look forward to the gray,

quiet time for solitude, contemplation, reading, long conversations with

friends. Colors are softer, sounds have more depth, the pace is gentler.

Instead of resentment at the lack of sun, snuggle into the gray velvet

quilt and make yourself a cup of tea.

WordPress Tags: Winter,curls,Sandburg,poem,friend,solitude,contemplation,friends,Colors,depth,Instead,resentment,quilt,feet,conversations,gray,velvet



Posted December 17, 2012 by dranilj1 in God Science Universe

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