"January," he explains, still looking a bit troubled. "A beginning, but a cold one. Or is it, a cold month, but a beginning? What sort of plant is love that should be sown in the snow, or take root in the granite ground? The plum tree is green in winter, and we honor its strength in the chill--but it doesn't begin there, nor then do its fruits ripen. A strange fruit, to begin in the frost. Or, to think another way, if there's a birth in January, how long will the new life last? And how much care will it need to stay strong--or, if it needs no care, what sort of giant might it become in its prime? Ambiguous, you see? Is it shadowed hope, or hope in the shadows?"