Imbolc Cold Moon
It is these middling days, when the sun shines and water melts off the roof, these days when the natural order seems poised for a sudden change, that make me want to hide deep in a bunker coming out only for true deep winter, May and the crisp days of fall whenever they might come. A weather purist me. I want a fall with blues that make you want to disappear into the sky, chill winds, golden leaves. I want winters with crunchy snow, temperatures that curl your hair and winds that howl all night. I like, too, those brief moments when the earth discovers growth again, when plants, leaves and flowers ascramble with color, fling themselves out of the ground, eager for food and light. The rest, those dreary drippy days of mud and slush can go to the devil, whom I’m sure invented such weather as a metaphor for our usual approach to values. Give me weather with a knife edge or the shocking beauty of a pre-Raphaelite painter. That’s what would get me out of my bunker. For the rest, bah.
