21 Days from My Window
Outside my window this morning, the beautiful Bradford pear ladies show the signs of a horrible winter storm. The one nearest to me stands tired and bent. Her wounds gape open and her branches lie around her on the cold ground. Still she stands resolutely, facing her grief and fighting for her life. She may yet survive.
Her sister, on the other hand, is in pieces. Most of her ravaged body lies on the ground blocking my view of the friendly, festive yard, the porch, and the wreathed door. Ice still clutches her branches in a death grip, and I fear that she will soon expire. Only half of her trunk and one cluster of feeble, bent branches stand against the backdrop of a wintry scene.
The rain is coming down now, pouring out its’ grief as it washes the street, the cars, my windowpane. The great gold tree has had to surrender several strong limbs to the weight of the ice. The struggle was too much for him to bear without injury. He is half the size he was just a few days ago. The great naked tree stands beside him. His top branches bent low, as though reaching to comfort his wounded comrade.
As I sit beside my window, the sight I see saddens me. I know that soon the debris will be cleared away. These trees will begin to heal if they can, and before long, winter will drape a lovely blanket of white snow over each of them. They will rest beneath his careful ministrations, while deep inside will begin that special magic known only to trees.
The first notes of rebirth will resonate deep within their cores, and it will hum throughout the winter season in preparation for a glorious spring. Yes, in the face of this awful, icy storm, there is still great hope. I wrap it around my shoulders for warmth, and turn away from the window with a sigh.
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