A neon orange ribbon outlines the mountain ridge seen out my window.
Pale blues, smudged and smeared with softer grays on this partly cloudy morning.
Taller pines sway as if bowing in honor and awe of the coming sun. It looks chilly, like the bare trees might have goose bumps in the breeze. I suppose that is why they sway and move about – anxiously preparing to be warmed by sun’s first light. Unable to bend brittle branches to stuff their prickly hands in knotty pockets, they compensate through movement, remaining active, pushing sappy blood throughout their bark-lined bodies. I think they’d jump up and down if they could.
This is winter. Exposed. Cold. Doing whatever it takes while pressing on in hopes of warmer tomorrows. Rooted too deeply to jump up and run away, we are left with swaying, actively waiting. Maybe it’s an impatient, restless waving. The change of season we long for might not come today, but we hope for sun, unimpeded, rising high, radiating warmth that penetrates dry and cracked exteriors, seeping to soul depth.
Yes, this is winter waiting.