On Winter

There’s a beauty to snow when it isn’t whipping your face and rattling your limbs to pieces. On particular winter mornings, when the wind’s faded to a slow exhale, snow falls gently. It piles upon benches and branches in neat formation and creates these white, blanketed fields across campus. Sometimes, when a spot of sun cleaves through the clouds, the snow scatters into that beam of light and transforms into diamond dust.

Poetry has been a warm companion of late. There’s a short and sweet poem by Linda Gregg that goes like this,

I would like to decorate this silence,
but my house grows only cleaner
and more plain. The glass chimes I hung
over the register ring a little
when the heat goes on.
I waited too long to drink my tea.
It was not hot. It was only warm.

and it perfectly illustrates that subtle, soft-spoken effect of winter. The way it spreads silence over people, the way it dims motion, the way it leaves the air crisp and breathless. The way warmth dissipates like a swirl of breath vapor.

I found myself listening to the entirety of Lorde’s discography last night, earbuds stuffed into my head, splayed out in bed with the blankets mussed up and the pillow crumpled against the wall. I was remembering how, years ago, I heard “Tennis Court” on the radio and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why people praised her music. It makes me laugh. How much of youth is spent denying that you’ll grow up with certain tastes and aspirations, only to find that you end up slipping toward those directions, anyway.

Caught in a midwest winter, listening through Melodrama and Pure Heroine while snow drifts outside in the dark. Now that’s something I never imagined to be a part of my life.