The trees glisten with the white of freshly fallen snow, like icing on a cake, hanging heavily on each branch, this burden we all must bear in season, flakes of snow rather than leaves, the dead of winter making me ach for those other seasons I’ve failed to appreciate, much in the same way I sometimes have done with people, who were once part of my life. This season full of doubt if not despair, of hindsight rather than foreshadowing, of what might have transpired had I been a wiser man then. We all repeat the same mistakes, carrying inside us the seeds of our own demise, waiting for spring showers to make them bloom, when now in the chill of winter we cling to that which we thought we had.
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