It’s a cold, wet, winter day. Not terribly windy, but a glacial breeze swirls around you.
It’s around dusk. The sun isn’t all the way down but there isn’t really any light either. Blue shadows and red light all around you, the dark clouds filtering out any bright aspect the light might have had.
Snow covers the ground, a solid foot deep, the top layer a sheet of ice.
The snow has turned to rain despite the cold as you trudge cautiously across a frozen field.
The center of the field is slightly raised--a low, wide hill.
On it, a tree stands.
You walk over to the tree. You look at the tree.
The branches are bare.
But there is one miraculous flower, clinging to its first home, glazed with ice, dripping the cold misery of rain, straining to flutter in the wind, held in sharp relief against the dark, soaking wood.
A star. A sun. A blazing furnace in the cold pitch of space.
And in the darkness of the world, the dismal drear of a metro station, a beautiful face.
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