#winter imagery

Tágann sí ag bás an fhómhair, 's ag damhsa na deireadh duilleoga 's ag racht goil na n-éin ag tús an codladh chruinne.

Bánaíonn mo bharraí, le síoc 's sneachta, 's Cuireann sí an leac oighir ar na haibhneacha 's na lochanna.

Taispeánann sí dom na réalta is soilsí sa spéir na hoíche, 's mise i mo theach teolaí, ag taitneamh as teas na tine.

Fágann sí ag breith an tearrach, nuair a éiríonn na chéad bláthanna, 's a dhúisíonn an domhain, le ceol na n-éin.

Cuirim coróin na cróch ar a cheann, nuair a thagann sí póg fuar dom 's deirim léi: "Slán leat, feicfidh mé tú an bhliain seo chugainn, A Bhantiarna Gheimhridh, tá tú i mo chuimhne 's mo chroí ".

She comes at the death of autumn, and at the dance of the last leaves, and at the weeping of the birds at the start of the world's slumber.

She whitens my fields, with ice and snow, and she puts the ice on the rivers and lakes.

She shows me the brightest stars in the night sky whilst I am in my cozy home, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

She leaves at the birth of spring, when the first flowers bloom, and the world awakens with the song of the birds.

Like winter ice in spring, 

Mountain run-off streaming into brooks and rivers. 

I felt the warmth of life—

Blossoms bloomed crimson violet vibrant blues. 

The sun was on my heart; I felt it melt, felt it give. 

Yet now, I stand staring into nothing searching for something; 

I stare at the placid blue surface around me, 

Not a ripple in sight.

This isn’t stoicism, 

This isn’t strength. 

This is calcifying into marble, is dying 

With your eyes wide open, 

Is stranding yourself on a lonesome little island and thinking it might

       not be so bad after all, disappearing.

I thawed, yes, but now 

I think all that was keeping me from sinking was the permafrost 

And now, that’s gone, too. 

(remind me: how did I ever mistake disappearing for flying?)  

-

Winter, from the Old English, masculine winter

Fell, from the Old Norse, neuter fjall

On the horizon stood the mountains like a great shadow, range on range of them receding into the blue-grey distance, their jagged peaks sheathed eternally in snow.

[...]

The sky was cloudless, the jagged mountains rising black on black until the very top, where their cold crowns of snow and ice shone palely in the moonlight.

[...]

It had snowed the night before, and the two of you had built a great mountain above the gate and were waiting for someone likely to pass underneath.

[...]

Outside its sheer white walls was only the mountain and the long treacherous descent past Sky and Snow and Stone to the Gates of the Moon on the valley floor.

[...]

On the valley floor autumn still lingered, warm and golden, but winter had closed around the mountain peaks.

[...]

A mountain is not a man, though, and a stone is a mountain's daughter.

[...]

"My father's grandmother was a Flint of the mountains, on his mother's side," Jon told her.

[...]

Though snow had blanketed the heights of the Giant's Lance above, below the mountain the autumn lingered and winter wheat was ripening in the fields.

I can see your pupils dilating like a heartbeat

From where we are; cheek to cheek, arms tangled together in an impromptu slowdance

And there’s a small rushing feeling in my chest

Maybe I should make it go away, because truth be told

I can’t stand the iciness of isolation, it makes me long for a warmth that will end my life

So day by day,

I do my best to ignore the frost, or gently thaw it when it becomes too much

It freezes words to my throat and thoughts to my brain

- There's a chill in my bones that clings without breeze,

and a winter's fog casts a pale windless morn.

Leaves and birds flutter from near barren trees,

like departed spirits from a midsummer torn.

- They dart across my line of sight,

and flutter about without a sound;

phantom wanderers all in a hopeless flight,

no chance of escape, they glide to the ground.

- Without as much as the flex of a wing,

these shadows of lives for winter to shirk,

fall only in silence for they dare not sing,

should winter hear them... she'll do her work.

- She'll leave nothing moving when she brings on her freeze,

and the living will huddle to find somewhere warm,

as ghostly mists rise wherever they breathe,