A Winter Discontent

I have to admit, it's getting rather difficult to find pretty things on the Greenway lately. Everything is shades of washed-out brown, with dry stems swept to the ground by wind, snow and rain. Even the birds are drably colored (the occasional cardinal notwithstanding): chickadees and juncos in shades of gray and white, Canada geese in black and tan, winter goldfinches in a dirty olive.

The verdant leaves and bright flowers are long gone. The most vivid colors at the moment, sadly, seem to be the poo bags tossed into the Greenway basins and tree branches by thoughtless dog owners. It is a time ripe for despair, long months of cold winter ahead before the first brave botanical pioneers reappear in spring.

It helps to remind myself that what was, will be again. Spring follows winter as inevitably as day follows night. I look out over the seemingly lifeless land and remember the waves of goldenrod not too long ago, and the butterfly weed before that.

I think of the millions of seeds produced on the Greenway last summer, and wonder how many found their way to a hospitable place where they can put down roots and spend coming years blooming and producing seeds of their own. I imagine roots below even now storing energy and preparing for the day the sun's rays warm the ground and lengthen the days enough to prompt the first tender shoot to burst through crumbling soil.

Until then, I learn to, if not relish the crisp air freezing my eyeballs in the pre-dawn gloom, at least appreciate the contrast a few short months can make. To see the tiny shards of frost on the grass glittering in the moonlight and realize such beauty would be impossible in the comfort of summer.