Lacus Hiemalis

The beauty of winter comes not in the spring
but the dawn before the First of Birds and the Dawning of Sprouts.

In winter, the death.
Death makes way for life.
Blank canvas.

Its opposite, life.
The thick of a jungle. Life makes way for life.
Abstract art.

But the blank slate is not empty due to grooves and threading of canvas yarns
as the white sheet of winter is not empty as the seed of life hangs on in a slumbering bear or the roots beneath the soil.

If winter is forever
does the paradigm shift?
Where is beauty?
On the lines? Or the spaces in between?