It’s March, but the sun is still weak. March is the gateway, when all things begin to grow again. At least that’s what ought to happen. The trees should leaf out, and buds should poke up from the rich black soil, now uncovered by the snow. But the snow is still here. There are still piles of it around, resisting the lukewarm rays of the still-weak sun.
The birds chirp in the morning, at least. It is getting warmer, but in infinitesimally small increments. It seems that the days warm by one or two degrees, and then the world is hit with another brutally cold one. Senseless violence, committed by mad air currents and a vengeful planet. So, perhaps not senseless.
Inner-city gangs have nothing on the weather.
Clouds cover this pallid sun, making light merely light, and not the conveyance of warmth. But these clouds, these amalgamations of water vapor and dust, cannot block out the sun completely. Without even this watery sunlight, the world would be unlivably cold and dark, so even when betrayal presents itself as the only explanation for the sun’s capriciousness, the sun yet makes the world a place to live and die.
It seems that all is not lost.