Winter stormed back in overnight on Saturday like a drunken dad, knocking about downstairs on a rant like why isn't there ever any fucking food in this house and where is everyone, while we were hiding under our covers dreading facing him in the morning. You never know anymore when he's going to come back around what with the environmental crisis and not knowing when there will be any work.
The sky was all messy with charcoal smudges like eraser-marks, rub that out and start over, again and again and again. Not a bad day but not a good one just somewhere in between and sorting out feelings about Winter coming home and the season in general. The opposite of bad isn't necessarily good. It's merely "not bad" and that isn't quite the same as good, is it? It's just "not bad."
He's back though, for now, and we (I) deal with that as it comes. It's not exactly as if there's a choice in the matter. He comes. He goes. Sometimes he brings gifts. Sometimes he takes back the gifts from the last visit. You just never know.
Echoes of Robert Frost now...
A love or a season
a love or a season
to bow and accept
to bow and accept...