The air during winter is fragile, somehow, and accepts with some disdain, the presence of any intrusion on the seclusion of the nearly serene landscape of snow covered trees and fields, Especially the crunch and crackle of betrodden snow, or the mighty roar, within hearth and home, of fires raging, violently waging war against the bitter cold and pervasive gloom, The land is savaged, brutally ravaged by the winds, which cut like the reaper's scythe, sapping strength and hope from tomorrow, leaving behind a legacy of sorrow in the many frozen tears, Frightened cries are oftentimes heard, signalling, yet, another victim of the cold, as the foolish and desparately bold venture beyond the realms of prudence and into the waiting arms of death, The solstice of perpetual doom is no respector of life, it's only through mutual help and friends, on which the sanctity of survival depends, that the months of bounty provide, That Winter is, indeed, harsh, can hardly be denied, but, there also does beauty reside, behind the veils of frost, longsuffering, and sadness, The kingdom of the cold can be aweesome to behold, when held in the grips of a spell, as time stops when the temperature drops and stills the mighty river's flow, The stunning beauty that's seen during Winter easily delights, for everywhere can be found, sublime sights to astound any within the confines of late year majesty, Because even in death there is a sense of hope and a glimpse of what's to come, a more abundant life for some, or a chance to exceed the boundaries of yesteryear, Winter is the end of another year's passing, a dilemma in the metaphor of life, an opportunity to use nature as a knife to cut away all that bleeds without refrain, So that when Spring returns, once more, to claim the land and spread the wealth of renewed vigor, the rewards will be so much bigger, for the lack of all that would tend to deny the health of a new day.