As
I look out the window this February morning, it strikes me how bare the trees are, their bones so evident in the stark clarity of these winter days. The skeletal
limbs sway in the wind, silhouetted against the gray sky. Their brittle
branches tremble with every gust. The
upper boughs fan out their tangled twigs reaching for the muted winter light; the lower reach
downward as if yearning to reclaim the leaves that wafted to the earth like feathers some
months now past. Tall oaks, like giant sentinels, stand firm beside the
spreading maples, while the gnarly ash is blighted by splotches of lichen. Nearby,
denying the blandness of winter, the white birch swoops and bends its supple
limbs to the pulse of the wind. Yet even now, in these last five weeks of the season,
the buds begin to form, tiny pods of hope that bask in the sunlight of these
longer days. They will soon burst forth in an exuberance of new growth, new
leaves, new branches, new life, and we, along with the trees in their new
attire, will welcome the spring once again.
