I Am Summer

(Content warning: Violent imagery)

Cold. A freezing, biting, gnawing, piercing cold. That terrible chill that stings deep in the soul, congeals the blood, and petrifies bone. It sinks down into muscle, sapping every drop of warmth. First comes numbness, tingling hairs and frigid breaths, then the tips of the fingers, the nose, the toes each are killed - slowly, silently. Yes, cold truly is the bringer of death. And he is my enemy.

For I am Summer.

My icy foe knows no mercy for your kind. He is patient, striking when you drop your guard. Just outside, he lurks, awaiting his next victim. This is the way of the beast.

That which we call, Winter.

In my fading days, he comes, competing with my dwindling heat. Young, he does not know all tricks he needs to win the battle. And so he lingers on the edge, taking a stab every now and then - keeping me on my toes. Every hit turns the leaves to brown - my life force bleeding as palmate droplets raining from the canopy. Colours swim in and out - a changing tide over the forests as they take their last breath.

I fight for just a little longer, but the beast gains in strength and scale. He sweeps in over the gathering night - a damp, a storm, a frost. We call his approach, the Fall - the great death. He walks the world, hungry and cruel, eating and killing as he does. For so long, the woodland waits, hopeful that he will not touch it, that he will take mercy on the budding stalks. But onwards he marches, grasping all he can reach. He sighs - a growing mist looms over the chilled soils.

The grass dies - its lifeblood drawn to the skin and speared through its blades, like skeletal fingers in an undead onslaught. Leaves curl, bark hardens, flowers wilt and fall black and brown against the silver sheet. Under the haze of the moon, he gathers faster, building himself a bigger body, a thicker hide. Dew becomes frost, frost becomes ice, ice crackles and splinters into needles that freeze once more. So many months of life and colour devoured by the beast. And when the moon rules the sky - when I am at last lying bloody and dying beneath him, all is still.

The first snowfall - life-giving rain fractured into barbed shrapnel, stone chipped and broken by hungry hands. Under Winter's skies, snowfall is light, dull, and sometimes glittering. But it is not beauty, just as bullets are not jewellery. They work their way into fissures of the wood, tearing veins and arteries, heart and lungs. Eyes have been ripped out, the face, once gentle, now bleeds and seeps. The wind bites its ravenous tongue onto exposed skin - tastes the warm breath, the pooling blood. Until the thaw, he feeds.

Each night, you bundle yourself and shelter in the arms of fire and heat. Men pledge themselves to a hearth, while creatures of the wood, to the embrace of their kin. Not for the last time do you forget about the beast - for the crackling flames cover his howls, and blazes vividly enough to overcook the flesh. It is then you take to the snow and ice looking to welcome his touch. You mistake him for friend, for beauty, for life. He is none of these.

He is a dark monster, lurking in the echoes of 'Merry' and 'Christmas.' He is a curse, a burden, the thief of all joy. He steals and destroys.

He is Winter.

He lingers, and you learn to despise him. You long for my warmth, my light, the lush green of the vale and the vibrant blue of the sky. He loses speed, vigour, and drive - and that is when I strike.

I awake from my slumber, and return to the fight, renewed. I gather my forces and prepare, rising against him, ready to reclaim what is mine. This is my Spring. With blade drawn, I stab at his frozen heart. The rays of the sun overtake the moon, and cold melts beneath its scorching blaze - shattering the icy glass that served as prison for those that swim and sink.

The soil rejoices, and the lifeblood of the land flows again. I shatter his bones, I break the frozen sheet he has lain over the earth, and I tear him down to splinters. His hide is nothing against my wrath. Frost becomes morning dew, snow becomes nourishing rain, the rain swells the rivers and streams. Leaves burst forth eager and green, petals unfurl, stalks leap, pollen dances, and creatures ready themselves for the arrival of young. All that which Winter had devoured is restored - not as it was, but new and bright and colourful.

And I return in glory.

I parch the sands and bake the winds. My days are long, near infinite, and have no appetite for destruction. Life flourishes in abundance, left wild and frenzied. I watch as flowers give way to fruit, tender shoots transform into grain, and vines bear grapes. I am plenty incarnate, I am rich and vibrant and thriving. I am a tapestry, art and music, and I am beautiful.

Yet I bear witness to no festivities... Where are the joyous songs from the mouths of men? Where are wishes of 'Merry' or 'Happy'? I am left to bask in my brilliance alone while you retreat indoors, seeking solace in the cold and the dark. Did I not save you from Winter's claws? Have I not brought the warmth of the fire and the luminous touch of dawn? Am I not wonderful?

Soon enough, I shall hear you wish for him. You beg for Winter. You look upon the life I have brought and sneer. The cold of your heart beckons him, grants him strength. Please, refrain! I've fought him times aplenty! I am worn and weary, I wish to rest in peace, but he will bring his vice. What if I am not to survive again?

I will fight as well as I can, though I can make no promises. He is returning. I see him on the horizon.

Winter will come. Summer will end. And you shall pine for me.