It’s that soft, sticky, heavy kind of snow. The kind that just piles up on branches and makes all the trees look as picturesque as an oil painting. This snow can be appreciated for its beauty, for its weight and wetness, unlike its dry, powdery counterparts. This snow covers a softly as a kind blanket, rather than freezing everything in its path to a stiff, gray misery.
This, this first strange wintry scene, can be loved and even appreciated, but as there is a shadow for every light, I know that this is but the precursor to that freezing, crushing despair, that bleak solitude of winter which cannot be touched by any light or love, the deeply haunting desolation of every vapid movement, each empty smile.
For now, at least, I can love this sight. And each thing which can be loved *should* be loved, while we have that capacity.