The feel of it sits upon the air, that time where all is still and quiet. Where reflection can be done and the to and fro of that which seems in every moment to be of importance, stops and huddles in its place. The wood is being collected, the meat all stored and salted and the final harvest will soon be reaped as we wait for it to come.
In the silence without a whisper, it emerges from the heavens. Gentle falling wisps that search for the earth from the dark grey clouds above. The winds in the start are gentle and the snow falls from side to side, seeking the way as a blind man with a staff until they meet their kind upon the ground.
The world becomes white so slowly and the snow echoes the air, a gust made to sound far louder than what its power can ever bring. The holly glows with its green aura amidst the naked trees and branches, holding onto snowflakes now and then to reveal better its divine origins.
Footfalls on softened grass now echo with the the crunching grind of snow as puddles crack with ice that shatters to show the hardened earth beneath. The wood has been collected and the fire has been lit. The months of isolated bliss draw near with all provisions stored.
The great white comes close and will not be stopped or held to ransom. My soul awaits the silent cold in which my dreams reside.