Like a spoiled adult child bent on driving a wedge between two fair siblings, so winter divides the calendar year.
Autumn—offering as sacrifice the vibrant birth and death of color—was but a memory now. Fading, fading, forgotten. The frozen world, however, was relentless, careless with the order of things, messy with the balance of nature. It postured, threatening to never surrender to spring’s new life, to Capri pants, to fragrant buds and sweet, essential mating. Winter was the drunken sailor aching for a fight, clearing a table full of beer glasses with one backhanded, muscle-bound sweep. There was no reasoning, here. No law could curb or check this belligerence. There was only the shattering of frozen mugs, hoppy foam, and ice chips.
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