Everything within its time will be beautiful. Truly. I have no doubt, well hardly - just consider a flower bulb. The bulb is dry and ugly, a shriveled and lifeless thing. Yet, the bulb does contain within itself all the beauty of the flower. In the order of things that will surely happen if all goes right, the bulb puts forth a shoot, the shoot becomes the plant, the plant bears a bud, and the bud breaks open into glorious blossom.

And unexpectedly, a brilliant ray of light flooded sunshine upon me. But for today, I walk in the light of knowing it will come again. Some day, someday soon.

"You are my sunshine.
You send color to my gray.
When I’m in tears.
You blow my heartbreak away.
You make me happy when times are down.
You turn my world upside and around.
You catch my tears in your hand.
When I’m in terror you understand.
When I’m falling to the ground.
You catch me and twirl my heart around.
When I’m surrounded by darkness within the night.
You come around and cast your light.
If you weren't here I don’t know what I'd do.
Sunshine, I really love you."

Despite trying to close the winter up with an arctic blast, I am reminded that you can find beauty in the most quiescent things. I was out running and started whining about the glacial air that bit and dried my skin, but then there are the days that the sun does come out and you see the fragile beauty that is still left behind from the fall.

“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
― Lewis Carroll

Thank you for visiting my post 💖 and, following along. Just know that there is so much love in my heart for all of you.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Shakespeare