It is inescapably beautiful today. The air is drizzled with humidity and afternoon dew, thick, thoughtful and gray. Maybe someone who is close to the Lord, somebody near to Him, is thinking deep thoughts? Perhaps they are heart broken? And we in this area are living in the reflection of that power, that dutiful dynamic of the human heart; poised and conscious of real pain, drooping and sinking into that melancholy magnificence of humanity? The sky is overcast with it. The clouds droop and drop the tears of its misery, the heart of a baffled king or queen experiencing personal grief, strange and curious subjectivity. The day is full of that kind of sensitivity. And we peer into it.
The leaves are dying. The ground is dying its wintry death. Trees will not dance anymore. They birds will not sing on this day. All of our steps are heavy and our hearts are hypnotized. Our eyes are false and our heads hazy. Winter is coming. It’s cold relentlessness. It’s bite will not relent. Winter’s mind is rapt with death. Soon we will all walk on the Earth’s wintry grave, the sky will snow suffering and the clouds bark and growl chilling exits and exasperation; it will beat down on us. It will not stop until our mighty friend, Spring, arrives alas on its white horse, that beauty, Christ. And as He does all things, He will reverse the reservoir of our desolate dilemma: winter, making it live and live again. The resurrection of Christ Jesus, that victory of the apple blossoms. Streams will team with fish. This melancholy shroud will remit, and we will have the victory of the apple blossoms. We will be as we were created to be. We will be happy.
"I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires."--T.H.