The face of the garden has been scrubbed clean by the icy winds of winter. They have left behind only those most primary shades of a February day - grey and silver, brown, dark green.
The graceful hydrangeas, that once held fistfuls of blue in their leafy arms, now stand as stiff as porcupine quills, frozen sharp and brittle under the full moon’s light.
The sweet fragrance of rose and gardenia is today but a memory, replaced with the crisp scent of wood smoke and pine.
And the frosted windows are all shut tight in this, the polar season.
Despite these cold facts, I still hold the blanket of winter up under my chin, my fists tight in their reluctance to let it escape from my grasp. How I hate to say farewell to all those delicious hot tea afternoons, curled up with a book and a dog - those wind whistle nights spent knitting in the orange glow of the fire, with Edward asleep on my feet. The turtleneck sweaters, the fleece lined boots - the hearty soups, the chestnut scented candles ...the sublime hibernation only wintertime provides.
Is there really only one short month to go?
Oh no doubt I’ll rejoice when the winds changes course, transforming itself once again from biting blast to blustery breeze. I’ll sing along with the rest of the choir when the pale morning light takes on its Easter glow, when Spring sends her scouts of green up over the hillside at last, signaling warmer nights and longer days.
But please, until then, do not hurry me along.
Let me snuggle under this blanket just a bit more.
And put another log on the fire.