A Shakespearean postscript

I reserve another time to talk about dark things. Just yesterday, like a postscript to its own end, winter returned to lay heavy snow on what had been blooming. A sticky wadding now decorates the trees; an exoskeleton of ice runs along with the wrought iron. The air is no longer one of tenderness and spring. We put on a bit of wool while waiting for it to pass. We obediently keep our backs to the wall. The winegrowers do not see it the same way. It’s because the vines, when they wake up, are so fragile. But we, who are learning to live with covid variants, have many other stings to hope for, and the cold one is only small stuff compared to the horror stories and thromboses.

Everything will eventually pass, and us with it. And this nagging weight on the delicacy of flowers, my goodness, it’s so Shakespearean.