The Winter Man, by Steve Kuzma

Like a dusty key left unused to a door that ceased to exist anymore, the winter man waited for a winter that ceased to arrive. His snow removal equipment lay scattered in barns with no purpose but to rot. The fields which had brought joy and wonder all those years ago now lay overgrown and listless, waiting for the feel of a snowmobile track.  No one appreciated the winter anymore and the winter man would have none of that. He always sat waiting, waiting for the snow to come back. The winter boots he wore curled and cracked in a sun that seemed to never set, his face red from the snow winds that had battered his face long before. The times had changed around a man, but the man had not.

The winter man held on to the snow, its wonder and mystery were never to be forgotten.  The years flipped by and society forgot more. The winters of time seemed only like a history lesson that had battered the people instead of something that was to be enjoyed. The farm he resided on, too, was like the winter: dwindling into the past, it coated with rust and tarnish.  The clock of time ticked on, but before all had failed and time expired, the winter man’s waiting had stopped. So long had passed but the sky had grayed and a miracle fell from the sky. Blanketing the ground, his farm seemed as if it were new again. Society panicked and snarled at the sight of the winter, but the winter man was back into his grove.

The barns were lighted and glowing in the darkness of the night. The equipment roared to life and the snow continued to fall. Tracks from his snowmobile graced the fields that had lain listless for so long. The snow waged on, and now society waited. Like a kid afraid of the night, society was in fear of the snow. Locked in their homes, glaring at their T.V’s, society’s turn to wait had arrived. … They were locked within the hands of winter and it was up to them to find their inner winter man.

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