Yes, Mother Nature. I get the message. You’re the boss. You decide what the weather will be. You decide when winter starts.
You’ve been leaving hints all week. The air temperatures were barely above freezing all week. All the leaves have fallen. They’ve been raked and removed. It’s Jólfaðr’s turn now.
I don’t have to like it. In fact, I don’t. Nothing against you Yule father, but the only ice I like is a small block with a dram of Scotch whisky. Preferably a peaty smoky Laphroig 10 year to warm the body on the days when you’ve decided to freeze the air. Like today.
I look out the window and I am well aware of your arrival. ?éohol. You’ve sprinkled the air with flecks of crystalline water. Then just to be sure we acknowledge your presence, with a breath you’ve blown it around, into my eyes and down the back of my coat. We see you and feel you.
But I know your time will soon pass. I can see hints of what lay beyond the months ahead. Little flecks of colour. Ceres is defiant. She has left small foot shoulders to fight back against your intrusion. Her minions will hold steady until the winter solstice arrives and I can look forward to saying goodbye to you.
I will look forward to the arrival of Sehul and the renewal of life. The frost will be destroyed. The cold will be pushed back to far northern places. Your power will diminish. You will be vanquished.
I hope you got my message.