The days are grey.
That bitter cold air stings my face and slams into my chest, causing me to hold my breath.
The dark comes before the day is gone,
and it stays even after the sun should have returned.
And all the things that remind you what a beautiful place this world can be are dead.
There are no flowers on the ground.
No leaves on the trees for the breeze to make dance.
The ground sparkles with ice, glistening as if to distract from the danger.
And if all of this were not enough, a presence within relentlessly whispers of sorrow and sadness even when there is none.
Those grey days bring laughter.
The breath returns and adjusts.
The dark can be scorned by the lights.
And the dead things are not dead, just dormant, and they will rise again.
The ice clings to every inch of every bare branch, a wonderland in real life.
And you are there to hold me, your voice cutting through the whisper, to remind me all there is to be happy about.
Those grey days of winter will not last forever.
The seasons will change, as they have many times before.
For all the bad, of which there are plenty,
there is also the good, of which there are more.