There is something sad about a fellow who loves alpine flowers and plants from cold temperate climates generally, and who resents the winter that these plants require in order to exist. Doesn't make much sense, really: I know I should give up my resentment of frost and learn to appreciate the crisp, clean outlines of winter, her simplicity.
Everyone says we are burdened with too many things...rather than the garish displays of poppies and pansies, as we see above, I should enjoy the crisp gray outlines of the hills and the clean, crisp emptiness of winter.
And a piece of me does: I get a lot of reading done in the winter months (which I love), and get to California (which I love) and sometimes the southern Hemisphere (which I love a lot)--which is cheating I know, because I'm escaping into lushness and verdure (and summer) again.
One of my favorite poets is Antonio Machado, a wonderful Spaniard, who sings the praises of the bleak Castilian landscape at all times of year, especially winter, in muscular, elegant verse.
Last night we had frost, and killing frost is predicted the next two nights. Maybe I would resent it less if the word wasn't modified so cruelly.
Suddenly I notice the Rockies outside my bathed in gorgeous crimson Alpenglow (a mostly winter phenomenon): I give it up! Bring on the snow! Welcome winter! Bring it on!