A winter tale

The icy hand of old man winter claws at me and his frigid breath doth howl and blow.  The thickening snow gathers ‘round my feet and toes, and the timid sun remains bound behind the low gray ceiling of the wintry sky.  But with the warmth of the coming spring already in my heart, and that Holy day when to Erin’s highest Son we raise our glass, I wait and read the ancient stories by my hearth to smaller versions of myself to warm their hearts and mine.  To spring…and St. Pat!