Snow and goats

I miss the snow and my goats.
I want it to be so cold that I have to snuggle up next to the fire.
These hypocritical words fall like lies from my lips, yet I speak the truth.
I am seasonally affected.
I need the sun to be happy and so I flee the gloomy interminable winter ridden lands of the north the lands of my birth.
No longer clutching the tea mug, desperate for its warmth
Rather sticky and hot under sunny skies or haze, but consistently warm.
Celebrating the one-day when long sleeves were preferred.
It is a unique occasion.
No one understands me.
And what I crave the most, from my sun-soaked morning porch, over looking the valley of tropical bamboo, is a cold wet morning where the ground is melting outside, morning chores in knee high rubber boots and a wool plaid coat with wooden buttons and a long scarf… all of this just so I can come back in to the smell of the wood burning stove and its dry heat, the mug of tea and a warm embrace under a blanket on the couch and being rubbed until the chill retreats from my bones and the tea bag hangs alone plastered to the bottom of the cup.
These are my winter morning fantasies. The spring brings life when there has been none for so long. The sap starts to flow again in the trees, igniting a chain reaction in the people as well. They stir and erupt with life as well. The trees bud and the sun creeps up over the hilltops. The snow on distant mountains melts and the streams fill again to caress my feet on summer’s riverbanks.

I miss the snow and I miss my goats. I miss the cold because of what it provides in return. Too much tropical sunshine denies me the tender touch, the comfort of covers and the slumber of hibernation. There is some monotony in all this lush jungle life. The rebirth of spring is an alien concept here, it is always halter-tops, high heals and sun. The condors circle searching for death because there is consistency here, no cyclical pattern of rest and rejuvenation.