Summers awaken the mania, winters squelch that.
Every bright hue blanketed in the consequences of the cold wind and low sun. The roar of July’s fancy, muted by the pack of bitter snow, suffocating the warmth of once burning hearts.
It is the balance of all things. Come spring, a thaw, new life from rich loam. Each autumn, the last words whispered, confessed before the dark tomb of winter’s doing.
We rise anew in the manic glow of summer’s embrace.