We begin at autumn; the rust gold leaves shrivel to ash, the air is more crisp, but nothing feels the same. A woman must endure the early darkness, and the stale stench of decaying landscapes.
The winter abruptly approaches, the air is drained from its once praised scent. Now we must inhale the thick frost. The beauty of shimmering snow blinds us from remembering the suffocated life buried underneath; she claws her way out through the ice, to be rekindled by the Sun’s warmth.
After these months of dreaded frigidity, the air begins to return with its earthly perfume. The snow has vanished, leaving the ground on the brink between life and death, but she chooses to grow amongst the leaves.
Summer brings in new, sensual heat; insects linger throughout the scorching air. The Garden of Eden replenished by her hands, the fruit of her labor often consumed before she can savor her work. But, we owe it to her, and we must worship her.