Waiting for the Summer

There is a solemn beauty in deserted beaches and coastal towns in winter. They are like abandoned playgrounds, waiting in hope that their silence will yet again be broken by the happy sounds of music and laughter. It is within this nostalgic feeling of silence and solitude that I find solace and peace. It is within this desolation devoid of noise and distraction that I find comfort and enjoy deep quiet. It is in these solitary spaces where I have time to think and wonder, let the hours slowly pass and behold the beauty of their emptiness, melancholy and simplicity.

The attractions, fascinations there are in sea and shore! How one dwells on their simplicity, even vacuity! What is it in us, arous’d by those indirections and directions? That spread of waves and gray-white beach, salt, monotonous, senseless — such an entire absence of art, books, talk, elegance — so indescribably comforting, even this winter day — grim, yet so delicate-looking, so spiritual — striking emotional, impalpable depths, subtler than all the poems, paintings, music, I have ever read, seen, heard. (Yet let me be fair, perhaps it is because I have read those poems and heard that music.)

Walt Whitman