Flowers in Winter

The poppy has furled its firey umbrella, the crinkled, still fragrant petals of summer’s last rose are quietly cached in a tiny lidded basket on the night-stand. Two weeks past we harvested the last four persimmons, which this year’s hungry bear left for us dangling in the tree.  Now all the trees, brown and drooping, now the evening fogs come in; now the sun leans far to the south, barely rising over the sere limbs of the arching oaks.

Yet, holly berries smile cheerily in the frost. The green beard of the mistletoe bristles robustly in the cold. The stars more brightly glimmer, like shards of ice on a deep winter lake. The quiet nights plumb the inner depths of thought-less splendor.

Winter solstice approaches,  placing sharp focus on the past year’s enterprise. What’s revealed by the gifts of the year as they are unwrapped in the quiet contemplation of solstice? What promises do they whisper for the year ahead? What future course begins to blossom within one’s heart as this year withdraws into itself amidst the utter stillness of the frost and snow of a closing cycle of time?