I walk amongst the trees. These are my trees. I own a forest! I miss the leaves. I miss green. I miss Spring. I am impatient for her, in all her fickle, sodden ways–her downpours, her chill winds, her late snows, and her overcast skies. I miss her for her bursting buds and clear sun and green, oh her green. She is a mix, our Spring, yet adorable, like a rowdy toddler.
Winter is dependable, set in her ways. Old, bitter, and cruel, robbing the trees–my forest!–of its treasures. Winter vanquishes Spring’s green, turning her leaves brown and smothering them in blankets of white.
The trees stand in disdain, gripping the icy ground. They are patient….and wise.
In Winter, they brace themselves against the cold, gray sky, towering in proud structure. Shape and form, simple lines and curves.
There is nowhere else to look, naught else to behold. They say, “Look at me and see my glory.” And they say it with no shame.
They don’t need the leaves to know they are….still….
And they whisper, “Woman, you can learn.”