A poem for the dark days of winter:

The sun is love.
The lover, a speck circling the sun.
A Spring wind moves to dance any branch that isn’t dead.
Any branch that isn’t dead, any heart ready to move with the ecstasy of love,
will dance without being able to help it, even in its most painful moments.
Since we live where everything is music, everything is dancing.
Watch the dust grains moving in the light near the window.
Their dance is our dance.
We rarely hear the inward music,
but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless,
directed by the one who teaches us,
the pure joy of the sun, our music master.
~Rumi