Winter will never be one of my favorite seasons.
It’s too brutal, too harsh, too absolute.

Still, no matter how much I balk and complain, one truth can’t be denied.
It can have a spectacular beauty, all its own.

My old willow became this vision, greeting me one frosty morning last week with the most delicate coating of ice imaginable.
Being a writer can seem awfully inadequate sometimes, so I won’t even attempt a description.
It took my breath away.