The last leaves from the trees in the yard are gone from limbs,
strewn flat on the ground in need to be raked, when the forecast already
predicts a deep chill, though not yet below freezing, the cold seeping deep
into my bones, retained until spring thaw, mother nature’s holy ritual as the
calendar winds down to the official first day of winter, and then three bitter
months of bitter cold we must endure before we feel warmth again, before we see
the first buds promising the return of leaves to the trees, promising a sense of
hope, the way we hope love will embrace us, each day marked off as if a prison sentence,
locked in this frigid embrace until we are recalled to live, love resurrected as
with the leaves.
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