Yesterday we had our first snow of the season. It was pretty; some of the fall leaves still clung to the branches; the last stubborn ones hold on, reluctant to change to the upcoming winter. Admittedly, I am not looking forward to another season with regrets, relationships grown cold, what-could-have-been and what-will -never- be. I'm turning cold; I'm growing old before my years. At least, for now, I recognize that snow--like my existence--as cold and bitter as it appears to be--can still be lovely with value and worth.