When Winter Comes

My winter comes in autumn.

It does not come with cold.  In even the lowest temps I cover everything but my eyes, venture out, and each time am delightfully reminded of my own warm-bloodedness.  We humans carry our own climates inside.

It does not come with snow.  That inevitable first dusting in October I pass by as if it were the summer fluff of cottonwoods.

Winter begins, for me, when the day becomes what's missing.  I can ignore the lessening light from June 21 to September 21, a sort of reverse spring, the amount still generous, bright early mornings and languid evenings perfect for watering gardens and mowing lawns--not enough time to sleep, really; enough light at enough height that I sneeze and become dizzy when I turn my face toward the sun.

But then the autumnal equinox rolls around, and the sun, when it hits me at all, hits me straight on, eye-to-eye, like a lover I loved so much I didn’t see it coming when he declared, “I’m going. I’m going.”  That is when my winter begins.  I mourn the loss of those hours, how each night it worsens, relentlessly.  There is no getting better, I know, until December 21st.   

Then, on the winter solstice, it’s spring as far as I’m concerned.  The world starts to open up again, each day a breath longer.  Springtails migrate in great masses over the snow on rogue warm days (I’ve seen them twice already!); in their dens, while hibernating, black bears give birth; chickadees begin their mating song.  Phenology fills my dreams:  sandhill cranes, red-winged blackbirds, eastern phoebes, spring peepers, wood frogs, hepatica, anemone, bloodroot all promise to come back like prodigal sons.  With snow, the world is blindingly bright in daytime and glows pleasantly under any moon over a quarter. Light.  Light.  Light! 

What gets me through the coldest season is not that famous line from Shelley’s ode--If winter comes, can spring be far behind?--but my own:  When winter comes in autumn, spring is twice as long.