Opening the door to winter

I've never yet met a winter I really liked. He's an unwanted guest and by the time he leaves he's always overstayed his welcome.

He sneaks up on me every year.  He disguises himself with white sparkly lights, and delicious holiday memories. I don't even notice he's here until it's too late.

I can't escape him. I stay inside and sit huddled next to the warmth of the heater clenching my library books. I warm my hands with mugs of hot cocoa dolloped with cream. I stay in the steamy bath long enough to feel my fingers wrinkle and my water grow chilly. From each room of the house I look out the frosty window to see the cold waiting for me.  He waits to pounce on me, nip at my ankles, and numb my fingers.

Every year winter freezes me. The short days stunt my ambition. I stop running, I stop gardening. I stop lingering outside on long, strolling walks.  I stop playing and I slow  to a hault.
Then I wait, and wait, and wait, for spring.

Maybe this year I'll try opening up my door and inviting him in. Maybe then he won't be so hostile.