Poet­ry can­not be the same, despite the present, which keeps the flavour of its eter­ni­ty. The cold has set in, and the air remains humid. Our skins have not yet learned to close their pores. We shiv­er to walk. We tell our­selves that we must replace the autumn coat with some­thing more suitable.

Some dead leaves still seem to have a lit­tle breath, but the oth­ers are well and tru­ly ossi­fied and frag­ment­ed. Some plants resist, but snow and ice will even­tu­al­ly swal­low them.

Our ear is not designed to hear them. They may moan, but I doubt it. Their roots remain alive and sound, wrapped in the ground, over­win­ter­ing and docile, wait­ing for a bet­ter solar obliquity.

The peo­ple of the North are usu­al­ly tough and know how to deal with the sea­son. The pan­dem­ic, this oth­er win­ter, has undoubt­ed­ly weak­ened them. It is said that sui­cides, failed or suc­cess­ful, are increas­ing. Souls are frag­ile, after all, in win­ter because it is chal­leng­ing to deal with the hours when they can only be count­ed with­in four walls of caution.

There are cer­tain­ly greater mis­eries on the plan­et. Vol­ca­noes explode on straw huts ; dic­ta­tors slit the throats of those who are too loud, big­ots lynch or burn sup­posed infidels.

On the oth­er hand, there are con­stant hap­pi­ness­es, peo­ple who love each oth­er, hearts that strut, peo­ple who dance, who sing obstinately.

We only know the cold because we remem­ber the heat. Our hap­pi­ness belongs to our visions and per­cep­tions. The chal­lenge of this human species is to build a uni­son with respect to the rest of the uni­verse. Why do we seem so far from the answers we once shared with birds and dinosaurs ?

Every­thing can be a sub­ject for phi­los­o­phiz­ing. I don’t need the cold to force me to do so. My breath, my roots, is hold­ing on, wait­ing for a sim­pler light.