Out the window I see the leaves congealed on the shingles of our garage. A brown and green slop ready to clog the eaves. Snow has given way to the dark of wet. The pavement looks heavy yet fragile, like it could break with just one spell in the air.
Paint peels. Fabric sags. Trees stand perfectly still in their full, naked bronchial glory. The breathing of the earth halted once again. Everything turns inward to survive the coming slow grind of molecular structures. The static and seemingly endless sting of cyclical death.
All that remains to remind us of the season past and season to come are the evergreens. Bushy cylinders reaching skyward for what little light remains. Never ceasing in their quest. They stand as the ultimate promise from nature to deliver us from its necessary evils. They are a sweet kiss from a hidden mother, the sting of their needles an apology. We float now further than ever from the nuclear heart of all life. And she is sorry beyond words.
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