❄️Winter Again ❄️ 🪦 "If something dies, something must be a..

❄️Winter Again ❄️

🪦 "If something dies, something must be alive."🪦

I remember the first whisper of the cold wind like an old friend brushing past my cheek, carrying with it the promise of winter's embrace. The world around me was shedding its colors, trees casting off their vibrant leaves in a final, spectacular show before succumbing to the stillness of the season. It was in the heart of this transformation that I found my thoughts turning to the cycles of nature, and a line from an ancient poem echoed through my mind: "If something dies, something must be alive."

As the first layer of frost painted the world in hues of white and silver, I made my way through the quiet woods—every sound muffled by the snowfall, every step deliberate and unhurried. The sensation of the crisp air filling my lungs reminded me that even in the depths of winter, life endures, merely waiting beneath the surface for its time to reemerge. There is a sensual beauty to this dormancy, a sacred patience that pulses with potential.

The twinge of cold slowly seeped through my gloves, yet it was met by the warmth that flowed from within me—a reminder of the delicate balance between the external and internal. The chill that tinged the edges of my senses only served to make the warmth more precious, a sensory dance between elements that could numb or embrace.

I paused to stand under an ancient oak tree, its grandeur undiminished by its temporary slumber. The snow dusted over its roots like a soft blanket, and as I laid my hand upon the rugged bark, I was struck by the resilience of nature. Life continues in harsh climes and throbbing hearts, in the promise of the green that will burst from the earth's frosty clasp come spring.

"If something dies, something must be alive," I murmured to the tree, to the wind, to myself. It was a promise—an eternal exchange, whispered between the old branches and the new buds that hide, shivering, ready to emerge. It was a reminder that though the world seemed engulfed by a sleep so profound, deep within the soil, the pulse of life quickened in anticipation.

As night began to fall and stars peeked out from the shrouding clouds, I walked back to my warmth, the fire crackling in my hearth. The sensual silence of the winter's night blanketed the world, and with it, the assurance that this season of apparent death was nothing but a prelude to rebirth. The juxtaposition of cold and warmth, life and dormancy, echoed the very essence of existence—the beautiful equilibrium that sustains the cycle of life. And within me, nestled in my very being, the truth of the words settled: If something dies, something else must indeed be alive.