palace of winds

This morning the world was white, white, white. I didn’t realize it until a few minutes into my commute — as I was approaching the 394W exit the veil of humdrum, of everyday, of the sleepwalking (sleepdeprived) life, lifted, and I discovered it was all sparkle and ice. One of my very favorite winterthings (tied with snowglobe days for number one).

There are times I bemoan winter — a lot of times, and loudly — often the times when I’m at the barn and my hands and feet are beyond numb, have turned into these dumb, stiff lumps of pain at the end of my limbs. And I repeat that tired old Minnesotan refrain of Why do I stay here, Why don’t I live somewhere warmer, What are we thinking. But I never actually consider it; it’s a reflex, like shivering. Because some mornings you wake up and every branch and every tiny twig on every winterbare tree is circled in frost, and Florida just doesn’t have anything that pretty.