The trees are hoarse this week. They crackle and bite. Without their protective leaves, they are twisted and brittle. They offer no comfort and turn away from any attempts at consoling.

The wind is wickedly happy. Its powers multiply in the cold air, bringing winces and huddles from passers by. It covers up any shouts of curses by dispersing the words within nanoseconds. The complaints find no shelter, no place of purchase.

Crackling and creaking, the heater tries to fight against its mortal enemy. The man made heat will never win the war, but persistence will prevail after months of fighting.

On some nights, the stillness is disquieting. Like the darkness is plotting something, laying in wait. You can almost hear the whispers. The nearly silent pleas for patience. The time will come soon. The arsenal of the night is unleashed as we sleep.

But I see the moon, phasing in and out, pushing and pulling on our hearts. The greatest pulls make us crazy. The deep absence, fearful. We try to control our environment, but we will never win. We cannot stop winter any more than we can make it rain when it's dry. Who are we, anyway, to demand from the universe, when we can't speak universe?

Changes are inevitable, even though the content of the changes cannot be predicted.

Remember when getting older meant cake, ice cream and the promise of spectacular gifts? No one ever told you this would change over time. You might have been able to see it in your parents' eyes, but you were looking at the cake. You were bouncing around the room on a sugar high. You were wishing this time would never end.

Then it is over with a crash.

The sun rises, tries to push away the cold, but its attention is not on us in winter. We get the short end because Australia gets summer. They get tennis and sunburns and surfing.

We wonder if the great American hope for skiing will barrel down the slopes drunk. We need this to blare from every magazine cover. Why are we so concerned about this possibility? One of the things I learned during ski lessons was this: most people on the slopes are at least a little bit tipsy, if not drunk and pulling from a chilly, half buried bottle of vodka on each run.

Hypocrisy is the American way. It is our mantra. We have broad (and easily circumvented) rules for ourselves and stricter ones for everyone who is not us. We want to look into everyone else's lives, but don't want to talk about what happened last night. We fight for peace and can't believe the people we're shooting won't put their guns down. We talk of turning the other cheek and then shoot first before even thinking of a question to ask later.

I see the lines in the dead leaves. They draw a map to a place I'll never know. A time I cannot fathom.

I know how the song goes but sometimes can't keep the beat. I trip myself and curse the crack.

I have signposts from the past to tell me where I've been. I try to divine the answers from paint peelings. I have piles of pens and notepads, but I can't read anything I've written down.

There must be something wrong with my brain, because I keep trying anyway.

Matt Worley ain't ready for the white ship yet.