Every year, just before spring, when the roads below are but sheets of iced, the clouds above lurk dark and grey, and the leafless trees between cast pitch-black shadows against the ever-twilit sky, every year, just before spring, I start to fear if Earth will come to live once again. If trees will blossom in white and pink and green, their bony frame reaching barren into the cold twilight air no longer. If clouds, grey and dark, will unleash their watery wrath upon dried up soil, and part way for the warmth of a gentle morning sun. If roads will thaw and the ground soften, no longer separating life above from that below, but providing soil and shelter for those in need.
Every year, just before spring, I wonder if the wonders of life will return. Or if winter has finally conquered Earth once and for all.
Yet as I wonder, a small beetle flies onto my hand and wanders its seemingly infinite surface. As I fear, a small bud grows out of a branch I thought dead, a softly-warm breeze breaks the waning spell of winter.
And so, once again, spring returns, and with it the wonders of colour and life.