Winter Morning. December 2019

This cold winter's morning, as the darkness edges away from the horizon, I find myself wishing that I was--elsewhere. And maybe elsewhen.

 
What would I be doing, and where would I be?

 
Sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, wearing flannels and wool, wrapped in a blanket, a quilt, a comforter. Which or how many of these would depend on the temperature of the air and the prevailing winds.
In my hands a hot drink. It doesn't matter what. Tea, coffee, cocoa, a toddy, hot lemonade.
The steam from the drink both warms and wets my nose. The warmth of the contents warms the cup and the hands that hold the cup.
Or do the hands warm the cup, keeping the fresh warmth from escaping?
No matter. It and I am warm and we hold one another in warmth.

 
Before me are treetops. Behind me, behind my home, are trees.
Layers of trees.
Rows of trees.

Rising solemnly in ranks and ledges and lines.
They stand silent, or Not-so-silent, in the breaking of day. They rustle, they murmur, reminding me of stretching and waking and the hushed voices of rising.
I smile and sip and look.
Below me, I see the stream moving, smoked silver in the pre-dawn. I hear the shushing of the water as it falls into the pool. I cannot see the falls -- not yet -- but I know they are there. I feel the cleansed air against my skin. I smell the freshness. I hear the soothing sounds, and
I walk away from my window looking out on the busy highway, and I wish -- Oh, how I wish! -- that the place I have been was somewhere I could actually be.

First? Frost of Fall

 Tonight's the night!

Put on the socks, wrap a quilt around my head and shoulders, wrap my hands around a hot cuppa (for me, coffee) and sit on the porch.

It rained today, so the light is shimmering.

The lowering temperature has the air smelling so clean.

The clean smell of falling leaves and fading greens; of pollen-heavy goldenrod and foxtails, and all those plants. Not so heavy, tonight, the pollen, because of the earlier, settling rain.

of long darkened evenings and darkening days and long nights ahead when warmth is the best aroma and even in our electric or gas or other technology age, the scent of warmth calls to mind woodfires and cooked food and family.

Too soon the coming cold will be tiresome.

Too soon,the wet, dark evenings will be an annoyance.

We'll be over it.

the plants will die, the greens will brown, and the trees will be bare.

But for now, for tonight, we can enjoy the changes in the air.

We can cherish the passing of the seasons.

We can await the coming hours of darkness knowing that, one way or another, the light will come again.

Eventually.

And the cuppa warms the hands, the nose, and the heart as surely as the socks and quilts warm the body

Hints of Spring

It seems the winter may never end.
It will never stop snowing.
Snow will melt and freeze.

But, driving down the roads, one sees the signs of spring.
Not, as you may think, in the clearing, brimming ditches, or the yellowing of the willow limbs.
Nor in the increase in road kill or the presence of predators.

The real clue is in the garbage at the curb.
There are mattresses and couches and pots of desiccated plants.
There are outgrown toddler toys, often with a free sign taped on.
There is an old door there, and a busted window frame across the street. (Wonder if both or either of those homes houses any type of ball player?)
There are paint buckets and piles of tree limbs.

Gliders are being painted and left to dry on porches.
Cushion covers are being washed and cushions are fluffed and filled.
Swings are being rehung  -- or new swingsets  are going up.
Windows sparkle and doors stand ajar as in welcome.

Spring cleaning is a sure sign of spring, as all creatures leave their dens and begin to ramble, sometimes half-blind and half-starved (for what? Light, food, companionship? Does it matter?).
Winter's waste is being cleared away.
Light is being let in.
Life returns to bursting-at-the-seams.

Welcome Spring.
You old slowpoke, you.