And so the juncture of cold comes
like prancing paws
echoing on ice
here again,
gone again,
until it's here to stay
awhile
drowning the particles
of grasses and
ground
in a kind of liquid trinity.
The tide of seasons
rolls in ever
comfortingly
lapping at the weeks
and months
with a familiar-ness
of which we know
so well
we could feel in our sleep
or hear in our dreams;
or catch
blindfolded.
And we begin to think
that it has always been this way,
the way of the seasons;
of ebbing.

Of the way
of rain on the roof,
of clefts in the earth
given us from the
anguished skies;
of the joy of winter,
and the revival of our
souls in the hope
of Spring.

"The question isn't who's going to let me; it's who is going to stop me." {Ayn Rand}

Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark. In the hopeless swamps of the not quite, the not yet, and the not at all, do not let the hero in your soul perish and leave only frustration for the life you deserved, but never have been able to reach. The world you desire can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.

{Ayn Rand , Atlas Shrugged}