I miss the deciduous trees. The winter sculptures that remind us of our bare bones. Like metal fingers in the sky that warn against the cold. Stay quiet. Stay inside by the fire. It’s time to rest.
Here the conifers flaunt themselves against the snow and grey. The only technicolor. The only promise. Come on out and ski and sled and snowshoe and dogsled and have a snowball fight. Make a fort. You can hide in our skirts if you get cold.
I want to rest this winter. I want to play on the pages of the novel I’m writing. I want to incubate by the fire in a robe with tea. And be reminded that the trees will hold up the sky without me.
