The Frost invites us to be patient. Without too much crying, it seems clear. It comes silently, with his firm step, clocked. He arrives with his canvas bag, where once-maybe-we had brought potatoes, onions, or soil. He looks like a wise old man, one who knows a lot about wintertime, its ills and its miracle cures. Goes from house to house fighting tenaciously old tractor shovel snow and spread salt. Blows on sidewalks, on the steps, the bins, cars, on the decorations. E-on all-spreads a thin layer of vitreous ice. It is not an evil his. Sure, we think, we men. We might even swearing at him and yelling, and puffing, and even swearing. He, with his calm, certainly do not prohibit it. He prefers to sit silent in his silence, continuing in that his meticulous work of evangelization of Winter. And collect all of the insults.
Every door, every alley, every square to leave a small bottle. Glass. Or better: it seems the glass but not so solid. Nor is it crystal will shatter. E 'of a material so strange that it is already the most open-imagine the fear of a ticket in the roll-it frozen. Only a few men (adult, in his fifties) has the curiosity to rummage in the letterbox. It does not fear a threat, or a new discovery, or the nostalgic memories of a past gone by. E 'curious. E 'open Open Poetry.
Bring home that small message given to him by the white man wise. The approaches to the hot stove, where it rests peacefully beside a baby angel. And slowly, the heat, with the care and attention, the bottle dissolves. Like ice in the sun, exactly. Strange game of Nature: The heart melts before the frost of winter. Toyed.
Meanwhile, he puts on a bit 'of water to heat: a good chamomile in this December morning is not bad. In the meantime he lost the window, throwing the eye at that point just before and just after the time horizon. We humans call this gesture "enchanted." As usual are inaccurate, I would say arruffoni. It is not a surprise, nor contemplation. It 's a tip inside her, to touch something that has seemed that-paradoxically-a thousand miles. But unconsciously, we realize that everything is within us. And at the same time away from us. Or rather: it is there, and it is here. And that view is the point of contact between us and what is outside us. Between the ego and the world, to be formal.
This man, with her hair always thinner and more gray, does not understand all this scratching sensations. The feel. The feeling, that's all. Maybe tomorrow it will account, who knows. Meanwhile, the water boils, distracts him with his mumbling, turning it back on the usual size. Supports the infusion of hot water on the surface, quietly listening to the sound of water entering the fragrant flowers. In a moment he remembers from his bottle, still leaning over the stove to take off the web of crystals. But the bottle is gone. Disappeared into thin air. Dissolved, dissolved. Now, it remains just that note of heavy paper that the heat of the stone slowly ripples. The man, ever curious and happy for the surprise early morning, I pick it up. He opens it. Unrolling. All very calmly, of course. The calligraphy in which the punch had crossed the card is fast, those who had written so many of these sheets. E 'but quiet: do not hurry, do not breath. Quiet, laid. "Wise" he was thinking. The handwriting of an old figure, than attentive to aesthetic form. Of those with an interest in the aesthetic form.
" Look at the patience with which a snowflake falls to bleach. Do not hurry: Patience is everything. Happy Winter . These are the words to be kept so that note come from somewhere. This man, as well as many others probably, had never-heard-or read these words. Or maybe he had caught every winter of his childhood, every day when life stops, frozen under the whiteness of the sky. In any case he had forgotten long ago. A smile appeared on his face. A smile that embraced the memories, the memories, the grief of a bygone era that a second-in-one before him had resurfaced. Wait a minute. Just enough to help him regain the scent of those days, the snow of the winter so hard but so wonderfully amazing. It approximates the window, with a light step. It faces, watching the cars slide, the men who curse, the women who complain. Only children are playing, without shelter. The face to the heavens in thanks, hands knead in the cold. Smiling man again. This time with a little 'bitter. When in the distance it discovers an old man, door to door, distributing something to the houses. It is not Santa Claus, although it can make a beard like that. In a moment he enchants again, or better-you-down again in themselves, realizing the wisdom of man. Then, with a nod thanks him, wearing his coat and goes out in the cold to cast an eye to the sky through different eyes.
