Late winter here in New England has been much milder than past years – dry and golden, with some warm days that bring hints of spring. Until the vernal equinox, however (I love the sound of those words together!) I don’t want to let myself celebrate yet. I want to soak in the beauty of chilly nights and bare trees while it lasts.
This post is by Bethany J. Melton, a writer from the Midwest whose words have the quiet, meditative beauty of morning mist on a lake. Bethany reminds me to cherish the time we have now, as the tiniest leaf-buds begin to swell on the trees and the last snow-mountains dwindle.
Thank You, Winter Woods
by Bethany J. Melton
I walked fast enough that the March rain didn’t seep deep into my skin; slow enough that I didn’t miss the beads on every winter limb. I’d said, “Only up the hill and back,” but the neighborhood was asleep in the mist this afternoon and I smiled into its silence.
I took Edgewood to its end—the circle turn-around encircled by forest. The woods breathed in the rain and I breathed in the woods. Wet leaves and sweet bark. I stopped when a bubble slipped from a limb and ran down my finger. I rubbed the water into my palm—a bit of March to carry home.
It’s me and the trees at Edgewood’s end and they lean in, their limbs entangled overhead. They’re naked and they know it. Like a rude onlooker, I’m gawking. I can see every knot, every crook, every vine. Some limbs are black and blunt against the white sky. Others are spindly.
All are motionless, waiting for me to pass.
I do, finally, and leave them their privacy—the privacy of the wood and a dripping creek and staring squirrels. It’s a privacy I sometimes crave, too.
Thank you, March trees.
We can tell every tree in winter without reference to foliage by its mode of growth. So study them, in some spare moments… They will repay—they are in the right place as beautiful as rocks. They have a nobility of growth which is usually entirely overlooked.
– Beatrix Potter
To read more of Bethany’s writing, visit her blog, Bethany J’s Journal.
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