To This Remembrance Of Spring (first letter)

I’ve only known dark, cold winters that last too long.  They’ve also been wet since I moved to the Northwest.  How does anything survive them?  Trees, for instance, possess an impossible toughness that baffles me.  Constantly exposed, unable to retreat or fend anything off, they persist anyway, in silence, seemingly without effort or intent, always in such radical contrast to the frailty of human beings.
Maybe people aren’t meant for this world.   You can wonder about that sort of thing in the dead of winter.  The leafless, overcast greys of midday surface briefly.  Dark mornings threaten to extend the night.  You could start thinking this is all there’s ever been.  You study the stretched tendons and shifting bones in your hand as it makes a fist.  Such complex, fragile things can’t last out there for long (not without protection or sustenance).  The borders of existence become intolerable. You feel imprisoned within artificial environments, places that will never be truly sustainable.  You depend on a disgraceful cleverness, a ruthless manipulation of whatever might benefit you.  You deny your own inadequacies.
I was considering all of this recently when you suddenly came along.  A cherry blossom popped into my head and I thought, yes, of course, this wintertime will go away.  It’s going to pass again.  Life will revive itself.  I felt so indebted to you in that moment, and I still do, but not for the affirmation of change, of new life coming in, going and returning again (as if you were equivalent to that passage from Ecclesiastes or some Heraclitus aphorism).
I owe you for reminding me of the importance of remembering (memory as evolutionary compensation for our corporeal and spiritual shortcomings).  The real struggle is with forgetting.