The Bare Arms of Trees, by John Tagliabue

I was walking up Henry's driveway the other day, breathing steam into the air, and I said to him, "Look. There are no more leaves on the trees." And my spirit said, "Finally." It was cold that day. And it felt right.

O Winter, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers.

As much as I wished it to be otherwise, I felt so unsettled with Autumn. I kept shifting my weight around in that big orange armchair, unable to find a comfortable position. It was odd; I thought it would be easy to love. So many of my friends come into their own once the leaves start changing. I wanted to wrap my hands around Autumn and breathe in that warm pumpkin-scented spiciness. But it didn't seem to fit. I found myself looking out the window at that corner, thinking, "Winter, where are you?"

I've come to realize that I am a Winter Woman. I get so cold and so lonely and so quiet and so tea-filled. Winter is sometimes dark and bitter and difficult and slow, true. But it's honest. And I trust that there's life underneath and in it all, even when I can't see or even imagine it anymore.

O Winter. Winter gives me that great grey space in which to breathe. Winter lasts. I get to unfold and settle down. I'm not squeezing every moment out of it, not clinging to it like Summer. I'm not rejoicing in its triumphant arrival, like Spring. It's not Autumn, for goodness sakes. But Winter is my time and my season. This is when I come into my own.