We live across the street from a beautiful park, full of huge trees and flowering shrubs of all sorts. Since we moved here this past spring, we’ve observed them all in their seasonal glory: light green leaves, white blooms, red berries, orange foliage.
We went away for a few days, and the brownish-orange leaves were still hanging to the grandest of the trees, perfectly framed in the high leaded-glass window over the piano.
A major windstorm hit while we were in New York. All the leaves are gone.
And the sky is grey.
And that’s the way it will stay until the spring.
A lovely, sleepy intensity lives in the tree branches and the prickly bushes lining the park. The playground waits, too, like a big fish at the ocean floor, watching unmoving until something comes along and it wakes it, suddenly alert and at the ready. An occasional dog roams by, sniffing the base of the monkey bars. The playground waits for the hardy children who are allowed out in the cold.
Soon the big tree's branches will lie under snow and we’ll gaze from the window seats, coffee mugs in hand, appreciating the warmth of the fire.
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