I hate nights like this...
Darkness is full on and it's crept like a haggard beggar into every nook and corner of Stately Sad Old Goth Manor, save for the little pool of light cast by the solitary taper here in my lair, where I sit and stare into my monitor, wishing I was in my usual funk, but, alas, Spring has managed to pry open a corner of my equally dark soul and has raised a rare and fanciful mood in me... which, I suppose, in a moment of outright enthusiasm, I might describe as almost gay. There are hints of green here and there around the grounds; the irises and the lilies are already a foot tall and the perennial beds are showing signs of sure resurrection, in spite of suffering the worst exposure to the woes of winter that could be, my planning of their locations lacking not a little foresight. The rockery is a riot of snowdrops, narcissus and grape hyacinths, and even the bane of all who dare run their gauntlet along my back walk, my lovely prickly pears are starting to shed the odd purple hue they take on in the cold weather and what was a carpet of spiny pads resting thickly on the ground now are stirring in the longer days and have begun to stand erect, to worry all who tread amongst them and ever at the ready to remind our poor old Sheba, The Hound from Heck, not to sniff too close... Soon enough there will be a display of bright yellow flowers that look as though they are crafted of spun sugar, they glisten in the sun so, but, as with all things of beauty, they do not last, they fade and fall to give way to the unique bulbous fruit that gives said cactus it's name.
The specimens in the shrubbery are beginning to bud and the ancient and weary maples that guard the front corners of the property are showing hope that they, too, have survived another bout with winter. Soon it will be warm enough to set out the annuals and the canna bulbs, maybe even a smattering of gladiolus here and there, all for cutting to decorate the dining room and parlor, to enjoy throughout the summer months.
It is at this time of the rolling year that I am in awe at the power of the goddess; just when it seems that the grey of winter will never be conquered, that perhaps, this time, it has won over the world and we will forever toil under it's absolute monarchy, to spend all the rest of our short, grey days and endless nights of frozen pitch in pursuit of warmth and light, backs bent and heads bowed against the cold and the snow and the ice that almost drives the life out of you, borne on winds that surely originate from some other unimaginably cruel world, so hard and sharp they are, almost blowing the very spark of human life out of your shivering husk, to fly away on them, never to light your soul again. And then, it happens. Like a compassionate mother who cannot bear to punish her children any more, for she knows that they are not errant, only foolish and willful and not yet wise, the goddess brings back lord Helios to ride his fiery chariot higher and higher through the skies, to relight the wick in our heart candle, so we, like he, may again burn brightly in our little world, anew. She sings the frozen world awake with her life bringing song, a tune not for our human ears to hear, but to vibrate through the world, to stir all that sleeps within to arise and join us in celebration of her love. And so, at this time of year, whether we know it or not, we all join in her song of life reborn and renewed, for we and the world are one; forget not that. We are all made of the same stuff, are we, and the world and the very universe that beckons our wonder over our heads at night; we are made of the very same stuff as the stars of night that grace her mantle and the morning dew that touches her hem, are we. Know this is true.
I shall now take my leave of you, but for a short while. My stomach rumbles for want of filling. Perhaps common fare of cheese and bread and olives and wine is called for this night. That ought to get the juices flowing.
See you later.

pearls before swine...