A field of untouched new fallen snow, hand knit woolen mittens covered with frost, a hint of frozen forest & sleeping earth
I remember, one December when I was much younger, sitting alone at night in a field. There were no tracks in the fresh snow other than my own and no sound but my own breath. Occasionally I heard a twig snap in the pine wood that bordered the field.
The air was perfectly clear and nothing was visible except the small cloud of my own breath between me and the infinite stars. All of them were visible, sparkling silently against the endless blue of space. I can remember nothing in my life so beautiful as the sight of the sky that winter night.
I recall clearly the scent of that winter air. It was not at all a pine scent and had nothing to do with cinnamon or spices. It was the blue frozen scent of fresh snow and silver stars. It was a scent that spoke to my young brain of remembering what was and realizing what will come. It was the sleeping scent of spring now frozen beneath the snow.
Winter is still like that for me. It is a time to rest, a time to remember and to look forward. Winter is a quiet time to watch the stars and have hope.
Christopher Brosius 1994 (Revised 2005)