I'll see you in the spring

His eyes see beauty in the things I love.  The thoughts, the memories, the flowers.  He sees the beauty in things that I might overlook.  His lens is different than mine, an artists' lens.  The rusty dock lined with the geraniumous clumps of red and white leads me to a summer glen that I might not have seen without his nudging.

But it's cold and foreign and overwhelming all at once.  The thoughts of continuation, not the thoughts of beauty found through a camera lens.  And I fumble toward the solstice, blindly, struggling. It will come, inevitably, so the only thing I can do is await its arrival, endure the darkness, and wait til the spring.  The equinox, when things are birthed anew, from the same womb they've been birthed from a thousand times before.  And the thought of this day glimmers brightly and leaves me to wonder, what if?  What if a new birth occurs, one that's never been seen before...