The snow has mostly melted off the evergreen sentinels surrounding my house, and the temperature might get up to a blistering 40° F outside. (F, of course, stands for Freedom, whereas C stands for Communism. It should be noted, of course, that it may only get up to something like 4.4° C today, an obviously inferior quantity.)
There is a beauty to the snow, beauty in its falling, in the whiteness of it when it spreads itself over everything, and now even in the melting of it as the world of green emerges once more. I am a lover of nature and of seasons; there is a perpetual beauty, a ballet, ever unfolding as Pan’s lips traverse his bunch of reeds. Demeter may abandon us for a time, but Persephone will comfort her mother again.
I am, of course, being flippant, which is the most serious I know to be when talking of such grand things. I am, perhaps, drunk, though not with wine. I gaze out my window as the wind dances through the snow-naked branches, and I can’t help but to want to dance too as those green banners of needles wave in jubilant victory:
The snow did come, but we are evergreen
The snow did cover us, but we were evergreen
The snow now melts away, and still we are the evergreen!
Tale Told 