Silver winter magic…
Pause before it slips away. Stay a moment in the place where the world is old and the world is new. Listen to the sound of wind and ice and the dampened quiet of snow. Listen closer to the music of growing roots, moaning caves, and crisp cries of winter creatures. Glinting white fur or a flash of wing catches the eye like a distant mirage. Maybe something lives here, or maybe it was nothing but sparkled snow reflecting the pale winter sun like burnished silver.
Too soon the sun will come angling in washing out the silver winter magic with yellow and orange heat. It will warm the winter into spring and summer like oil paints layered over a perfect bare canvas. All the mystery, all the bones and seeds of things will be buried in an onslaught of life. The silver winter will be lost, but not gone. It’s always waiting, quietly. It dwells in the absence of things, in the ground, and in the night. It will always return, because it’s where everything else came from.
Winter lies in silver starlight as the place that came before and the place that came after. Here in the silver winter we may close the door on the things that are ready to remain behind. Let the winter night take them back and return them to the place of darkness. Return them to their cosmic origins as fuel for the silver stars. Burn what remains of that which is done and reform it into something new.
Here in the silver winter a dream is born. It flies on wings of the silver starlight traveling the span of darkened space fast and across centuries to reach the watching eyes of someone in the winter night. In the burst of a moment and the still of a moment a connection is forged between stars and life that came from stars all along a silver beam.
When winter recedes like a shadow shrinking in the noonday sun I look for the silver places. They secret away beneath things, around flowing water, high atop mountain peaks, and at the end of the night just before morning. I hear the silver sound in the whistling wind, and I taste the silver snow when the rain is cold. A silver mist may come to lie across the mossy rocks or layer in amongst the forested hills. There too winter waits. But for now winter remains. The relief of the silver season extends its rest for a while longer. Let it have all that was and turn it silver. Let it remake the world born from silver. Let the winter silver trace and line every moment of the year to come with a little winter magic.
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