I drove by a small grove of trees the other day and memories filled my mind of other days and other wintertime woods–times when the trees rose, gray and bare to a cloudy sky, just like this day. Brown, crisp leaves of autumn lay in heaps at their feet. The wind that stirred the leaves and curled around the trees stung my eyes with its sharpness.
Wintertime trees are honest trees, stark, bare, their dark branches rising in graceful shapes. Nothing hidden, all in plain sight. There’s something bracing and cleansing about walking through these woods, dodging wild blackberry bushes, admiring rocks poking through damp mosses.
A chill breeze blows away cobwebs of anxious thoughts and the brittle leaves leave no footprints behind. Summer woods have a green, lush beauty but winter woods have a beauty all their own.
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