Down the snowy hill came a Beatrix Potter rabbit who made tobogganing upon a fish look humdrum and mundane. In a kind of nonchalant pride, dressed in finest dapper - a powder blue jacket, tailored with pockets and wooden buttons - he stood above the dorsal fin and held a fine black handle that was attached as a bridle would be to a horse. The fish, for his or her part, took it all in good grace, silver scales flashing in the sun. There was no wiggle, simply the occasional steering from its side fins into the snow.
Were it sunny every day, how I would crave the snow! For the winter wonderland and the bold denuded trees are part of my soul. With the snow comes a freshness, a hope, as if living can go on again as a pen upon a brand new page.
My love of the winter wonderland is partly grounded in the surety that there is a warm lovers-lodge to return to, a lodge with soft woollen blankets and a dream-inspiring hearth.
There is something magical about this winter wonderland, between the pure white and heart-warming browns. There is a glory in the silence, in the reverent awe of nature, in the stoicism of root and branch.
The mountain top had a fresh dusting of powder, it was the winter wonderland of every childhood dream. One could imagine oneself as a fairy upon a vast white cake, shoes white with sugar. Yet real trees are so much more than one can imagine from a simple card or television image, there is a spirit about them, a sense of wisdom and an aroma that calms the soul.
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