*$#@@ You, Winter

Poets have always written paeans to Spring.  It certainly makes sense: spring is the time of year when we feel alive, when the earth and all of its creatures emerge from a long winter's slumber.  Spring also serves as a nice metaphor for other important things in life, like growth, love, and lust.  But as I've sat and suffered through this winter that just doesn't seem to want to end (we had snow a week ago, and temperatures have been running 5- to 10-degrees below normal for weeks), it occurred to me that one of the reasons poets write so much about spring as opposed to winter is that they're all cowards. 

Winter is a bully and no one wants to stand up to him.  Instead, we collectively ignore the issue and praise spring.  I'm done with that.  Screw you, winter, and your life-sucking ways.  You arrive every year with promises of snowball fights and sledding, Christmas and hot chocolate.  Then you convince autumn to let you get started early and don't answer spring's calls four months later. That leaves us with four months of ice, snow, darkness, and cold.  Your job is over now, time to move on. 

I know that there are a lot of people out there who say that they love the winter.  I think they're lying. They may have found ways to cope with winter, such as skiing or skating or snowshoeing, but I don't think they really love winter.  They're just like the poets, though, too scared to call winter out for fear that it will retaliate. 

I'm over that.  I'm taking a stand and telling winter to hit the road.  Sure, I know winter will be back next year, but so will I. I could run away somewhere south (theoretically, that is) but I'm going to stay to keep an eye on winter, to keep it honest. 

Back in the Saddle

It's been sitting there, like a pair of pants in the closet that you swear you'll be able to fit into again, some day.  It's been gnawing at me, especially as I have come across something in my daily travels that I label "blog-worthy."  But there comes a point, I believe, where the plant that you haven't watered for a long time ceases to be a living plant and instead becomes a relic, a memorial to live plants.  It can't be brought back, no matter how much water and sunlight you might provide. 

I'll stop now because the needle of the metaphor meter is pinned to the red.  I think you get the picture: after a long hiatus, I'm resurrecting the Prospect Perspective.  I do it for no other reason than I enjoyed sharing my thoughts with those people lucky enough to happen upon my tiny corner of the web. 

Yes, I'm going to ask you to stay tuned.  But you won't have to wait too long for new content.  I promise.