The juxtaposition of the green-leaved trees against the powdered white snow perplexes my senses.
The dusting of snow seemingly fell out of old man winter's mouth as he chuckled to himself knowing his time is nearly here. The water, caught off-guard from winter's advances, takes the form of long, spindly glass-like fingers reaching out from shadows of the rain spouts.
It's strange to see the green leaves still on the trees. They have yet to transform into their hues of gold and browns and begin their descent to the ground, forming a blanket of warmth for the tired and worn blades of grass. Strange how the coming season can still surprise autumn's fall.
Somehow I expect the changing of the seasons to follow a set schedule; orchestrating a rhythm of buds, blossoms, foliage and bareness. My human mind is desperate for a neatly packaged environment, of which I can set my watch to (and change the wreaths on my front door accordingly). But my spirit relishes in the joys of knowing life is much more than chronological days laid out neatly in black rimmed boxes. Plans for tomorrows are always interrupted by moments of today.
And so it is. Snow lays sleepily on the outstretched limbs of the trees while decorative pumpkins strive to keep their place on the frosty lawn. Rubber boots are traded in for winter boots, fleece jackets fall way to the flannel-lined snowsuits. And while plants yawn themselves into their winter slumber, I am awakened by today's treasures of white, green and gold.
The dusting of snow seemingly fell out of old man winter's mouth as he chuckled to himself knowing his time is nearly here. The water, caught off-guard from winter's advances, takes the form of long, spindly glass-like fingers reaching out from shadows of the rain spouts.
It's strange to see the green leaves still on the trees. They have yet to transform into their hues of gold and browns and begin their descent to the ground, forming a blanket of warmth for the tired and worn blades of grass. Strange how the coming season can still surprise autumn's fall.
Somehow I expect the changing of the seasons to follow a set schedule; orchestrating a rhythm of buds, blossoms, foliage and bareness. My human mind is desperate for a neatly packaged environment, of which I can set my watch to (and change the wreaths on my front door accordingly). But my spirit relishes in the joys of knowing life is much more than chronological days laid out neatly in black rimmed boxes. Plans for tomorrows are always interrupted by moments of today.
And so it is. Snow lays sleepily on the outstretched limbs of the trees while decorative pumpkins strive to keep their place on the frosty lawn. Rubber boots are traded in for winter boots, fleece jackets fall way to the flannel-lined snowsuits. And while plants yawn themselves into their winter slumber, I am awakened by today's treasures of white, green and gold.
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