Fading Glory

Inbetween my home and school there lies a little glade, a nest of trees to find a way between each day.
A man with nowhere else to go has called it home, and now as winter finds its way into this nook, the man begins to build a fire.
Smoke is rising and it startles me each morning. He calls out to me, the presence of a fire beckons me on such a frigid morn, but he does not belong here.
Nor does the ziplock bag of dead brown leaves upon my desk, its value no one understands but me.
If I had an icy bag of water, I’d know it had been that first snow, and if there was an empty jar, I’d see in it your first cool breath that left its trace upon the wind.
These first fragments of the seasons are more than fading beauty.
I’d sit them side by side in front of me in order to remind myself to hold on tightly to each fading glory.

Snow

Jesus loves me this I know
Today He brought me Budapest's first snow

Rain

It's raining. Sometimes I love the rain, when it's warm out and it feels more like a shower. These days it's as cold as it can get and still be rain and not snow. And it just makes me long for snow. Rather than a cold and gray, dark and dreary day, the sky would be bright, and whiteness would fall down gently, gently, not hard like water but soft as a blanket. The dark streets and empty trees would feel loved again by white pearls. And I would walk for miles in the cold, all bundled up in my hat and my scarf, and enjoy the way the path is changing before me every step, the tread under my feet gets higher and crunches more and more, and everything is quieter, holding its breath. Such a contrast from the rain, which pelts its way down onto the roof and demands it be heard and noticed, as much as we all just want to ignore it.
I'm longing for the first snow.