Excuse me for not taking you seriously--I thought you were a joke. Really. When my friend first suggested you to me, I laughed in her face, perhaps it was your initials, as laughable as my own, though opposite in nature. I'm not sure.

But sitting here, next to the woodstove, a wrapped scarf around my neck and a cup of coffee in my hands, a horrible case of the sniffles and scratchy throats, and the inability to think through much of anything clearly--I begin to take you seriously. I Wikipedia you, stopping for long moments to stare outside at whiteness everywhere. White sky, white ground, white ice-tipped trees. I continue reading, stopping only to sip my coffee and blow my nose.

Suddenly realizing that while you may always be a joke in my book, you feel very real. Secretly I will rest knowing that you only attack in the winter--though up here winter is the majority--secretly I will rest knowing that this monochromatic atmosphere will melt, fade, and sink deep into the earth.

I know light and green and life and growth will come again. I've got that on you.