Arrive Before You're Ready

Don’t Care About You

Feel Like Groundhog Day

Feel Sparse

Hang Heavy

Harden Reality

Refuse Negotiation

Reward Preparation

Thaw

Turn Bitter

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That grand old poem called Winter Henry David Thoreau

is a long, open time, with nights as dark as the end of the world.

Winter is a long, open time. The nights are as dark as the end of the world. ¶ The elk that you glimpse in the summer, those at the forest edge, are survivors of winter, only the strongest. You see one just before dusk that summer, standing at the perimeter of the meadow so it can step back to the forest and vanish. You can't help imagining the still, frozen nights behind it, so cold that the slightest motion is monumental. I have found their bodies, half drifted over in snow, no sign of animal attack or injury. Just toppled over one night with ice working into their lungs. You wouldn't want to stand outside for more than a few minutes in that kind of weather. If you lived through only one of those winters the way this elk has, you would write books about it. You would become a shaman. You would be forever changed. That elk from the winter stands there on the summer evening, watching from beside the forest. It keeps its story to itself.

is a pause, the Minstrel-Year taking breath.

Spring, the low prelude of a lordlier song: Summer, a music without hint of death: Autumn, a cadence lingeringly long: Winter, a pause...'the Minstrel-Year takes breath.

Winter is a season of recovery and preparation. Paul Theroux

is a severe master artist who no longer uses the canvas and the pigments but turns to marble and the chisel.

[W]hat a severe yet master artist old Winter is . . . No longer the canvas and the pigments, but the marble and the chisel.

is a simplicity marked by a deep moral, similar to the philosopher who comes back from the banquet to a cup of water and a crust of bread.

The simplicity of winter has a deep moral. The return of Nature, after such a career of splendor and prodigality, to habits so simple and austere, is not lost either upon the head or the heart. It is the philosopher coming back from the banquet and the wine to a cup of water and a crust of bread.

is a time in which warmth stands for all virtue.

In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue. Henry David Thoreau

is a time in which we lead a more inward life, with hearts warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts.

In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts. . . Henry David Thoreau

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