Winter's Grip

I neglected to mention in my last post of the images that were posted are some stark ethereal images of winter and it's rather icy grip that befalls us at this time of the year. Fortunately we don't adhere to the really austere grasp of a bitter cold such as Minnesota or God forbid-Alaska and it's frozen tundra. But here in St. Louis, we can get stung by an icy field that chills one to the bone and harkens us to the droll of the dog days of summer. And if you've ever been to St. Louis, it's the one thing that identifies us with the whimsical, the farcical, the quirky is that if you don't like the weather, wait a day, it will change. Alas, this blog or even this post isn't a weather report. This particular post favors on the mystique of winter and the allusion of a silent reverie that we subject ourselves to. We harbor to our barcalounger, in front of the fireplace and hunker down from the icy blast. We entertain ourselves with the thoughts of Thoreau, or the poetry of Frost, "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" and however pensive our idioms become we look for the finite in an infinite world. Just as the ice on this leaf is kissed by the sun, and slowly cascades to the ground, we look for the flow of those dissolving waters to carry us home.