Old Man Winter, My Friend

by: Cynthia Ann Kazandjian

Winter counts the years carefully, like a hefty old-world bookie calculating his profits in the smokey back room of an expensive, shady steakhouse. Summer is a provocative fire starter who thinks she’s immortal. She doesn’t bother with numbers. Spring, she’s ever hopeful — a perennial rebirth, a gorgeous gateway between seasons. Whenever I think of spring, my mind drifts to the image of pink magnolia petals, like découpage on the grey cement sidewalks around my home. The swan song of the four seasons is fall, of course. Mother earth spins all of her allure into a bewitching colorful tapestry before being overpowered by the final act — winter. My mind always lingers on winter. My thoughts travel into the deepest inner crevices between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox.