How quickly yes it turns from this to this,
and brightest day in sunny glory is a memory, while a chill and bleak snowy scene has its own radiance, numinous apparitions of white on white, what once may have been green or brown, or even scarlet, now white as snow, actually snow, no longer a fence but snow in the shape of a fence, snow in the shape of a tree, snow as pasture, and in the still and chill a calm of dying down and being still, chilled and stilled by winter’s grip, yet pleased with all the equanimity of noncolor that makes us believe again in change, change from our peccant ways to find some level of peace, inner peace with an outward expression.
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