Sometimes the winter winds can rip right through the soul. Especially when they happen after the onset of spring, when the birth we have sought all winter simply vanishes in the frigid night.

Like the burden of spring snow laden on the blossoms of tomorrow, we are driven to the bowels of our souls by the weight of unbearable thoughts. We lose our luster in the howling winds of a hope dashed by circumstance, and we watch the pedals of tomorrow fall to the ground and be buried by snowfall that just does not seem to belong.  Everything seems disjointed, unnatural, but ultimately it is the way it must be.

The promise of rising tulips now lay broken, the cause of an equinox now forgotten in the unexpected. Perhaps the snow was beautiful for a moment, but certainly not now as the shards of hope scattered about the mind of those tired of winter digs at the core of their desire. I will pray for a return to spring, and for the song of summer to appear.

“Pray all you want,” says fear, “but I will always have the upper hand. Bask all you want in the warm sun, for all I need do is say the word and the chill will return. Thus, you will remember your place in this time, and your time in this place.”

If we survive the burden of such an unexpected storm, and find solace beside a fire built for us in the midst of such suffering,  tomorrow may bring with it a renewed march to summer. If we do not freeze in the disappointment, or slide broken down the icefalls we cannot see in the night, we may see tulips rebound and the cherries form, and perhaps a bee or two to announce that the storm did not win, and that summer was saved in the reemergence of spring.

Perhaps tomorrow will see me worthy of the spring. Perhaps then, I may see the summer.