The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Our back yard dips down quite low; the back end of it houses the water runoff for the whole neighborhood, so it’s the lowest spot and the wettest.  I don’t know the science behind fog but the yard was blanketed in it and it was enchanting the way snow can be.  The ugliest things: the decaying woodpile from a dead birch, the 5 gallon paint buckets from a neighbor’s honey-do chore, the unwieldy unpruned butterfly bush, all made soft and pretty.
Then on the way to work as the sun gets serious its gold shoots through the corn and vanquishes the damp, winning the battle not the war–  but in the moment as it happens I sense all the vanquishing, of winters and summers and years gone by.  I sense time passing, but collect this minute, this instance of bliss, this sunrise and surge of energy.  Catalogued, banked.
I love autumn, and I love winter.  My mind is most fertile when it’s cold.  Whatever relationship there is between what might be perceived as a soul and the carbon-based fleshy sack around it, in me, is most antagonistic when it’s hot.  Heat makes me sour, irritable.  I take it as an assault on me even as others relish it.  I lose hope for the future.
I love cold, I love being cold, I love breathing cold air.  I’m cheered by it and feel cared for, a secret between me and god him/herself,  a secret code only I understand.