Winter approaches. He’s left his calling card hung overhead as evening grey clouds roll in; he whispers against our cheeks, making them blush red. Like a hurricane in the sky, he funnels the sun away, as he encompasses its eye. I know he will soon close the eye with a shuttering wind.
And there’s something familiar enough in his coming that makes me welcome him, even when it is with trepidation —
Am I ready?
Have I prepared?
Will I make it ’til next spring?
How can one who brings death make me feel so alive? When my world deafens with silence, and all life but the rabbits’ seems to hush and still, is it then that I finally listen? — Is it then that I hear myself breathing loudest in my own ears? — Exhaling under pressure:
The sun is somewhere above, and we know it, but he is hidden away from our eyes. Why did he let the clouds roll in, coil up, and strike the heels of summer and warm blood, chasing all feeling away from our fingers, freezing our eyes in slow motion? Will his eye appear again to gently crown the leafless apple tree with life again?
And there’s something certain about his coming that makes me welcome his thoughts, even though it is not without trepidation —
Will the dove return?
Will the flooding darkness end?
Will I endure?
How can one who brings daily death make me feel so alive? When my world deafens with silence, and all life but my own stampeding heartbeat seems to hush and still, is it then that I finally listen? — Is it only then that I hear him breathing loudest in my ears? –– Whispering:
The LORD is slow to anger but great in power; the LORD will not leave the guilty unpunished. His way is in the whirlwind and the storm, and clouds are the dust of his feet.Nahum 1:3