We’ve had snow for about two months now. Every now and then I’ll see something that I find strikingly beautiful about the winter…the way the sun sends the sky into brief spams of intense colour for the few moments before night hits full on, or the way the stars look so close, scattered by the millions across a charcoal black expanse.
But to be honest, most of the time it’s just cold. Or slushy. And not just wet, slushy, but dirt slush. Everywhere.
Right now I dream of warm, long summer days, lying under a huge, leafy tree, the sun dappling my skin in soft kisses.
I conveniently forget the scorching blaze that hammers oppressively on the head, filling the house with pent up fire that emanates all through the sticky, sleepless night.
But enough of reality! This is a painting about bees, which I like. And honey, which I love. The absence of summer makes my heart grow fonder, and in my dreams it is perfect. Just like an ex-lover, summer is the one that got away.