Winter

Winter has hair of fire. Red and orange that look like living flames. It isn't a coincidence. It's her way of reminding you that the fire you're missing is inside. This classic witch with a broom didn't arrive to teach you meditation or calm you down. She arrived because you lost your inner fire. That spark that made you get up with drive. That healthy anger that pushed you to change what wasn't working. That passion you now only remember in old photos. Her name speaks of winter but her presence burns. Winter knows that the harshest winters are the ones that come from within: when everything goes out and nothing moves you. When you do things by inertia. When you survive instead of live. The broom she carries doesn't clean. It stokes. Like someone blowing on embers to make them fire again. "Inner power isn't found. It's lit."