I sit on my old, worn couch in my tiny apartment with all the windows open, watching the snow fall sideways like some people watch TV. It’s an angry snow, the kind that slaps your face like a jilted lover. The trees stand weary in their white shawls. Any buds that sprouted with hope have withered, shaking fists at the capricious sky.

But snow is beautiful. The beauty is that it falls.

The buds will sprout again. Hope does not freeze.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep…