When I hear people say that they hate winter, I think of a cold barren wasteland; of trees without color and arms that used to reach for the skies slowly being weighed down by the unrestrained embrace of snow; of worried parents who need to put gloves on their children before they go outside or else the wonderful snowmen they forge, betray them and bite their fingers with frigid fangs.
When I hear myself say I love winter, I think of white trees who have donated arms to snowmen and their new color reflecting all colors of the sun; of the children taking off their gloves and carefully placing them on the hands of snowmen so that their fingers will be warm forever.
