Winter loses color like rain falling from darkened clouds — dripping its ink onto the grown below. But, where do the colors go? The sky shines lightest gray. The grass stands the softest brown. The world aches for sunlight to awaken sparks of color.
Does it jump around the planet — somewhere on the other side? Does it slink off to the tropics to take a vacation? I imagine it sinks deep down into the oceans, rivers, and lakes to hibernate for a while with the mermaids and dryads. Maybe the oceans are bleak in the summer and turn brilliant mid winter.
Because the colors are certainly not here. Not even the happiest tawdry sweater can pull our eyes quite back out of the foamy, grey days of winter. It’s the time of poetry and loneliness and waiting.
