ICY WAND

Winter awaits.

Chili simmers.  Marshmallows- purchased for summertime s’mores- float in steamy hot chocolate. Harnessed fire hisses and pops in the hearth, demanding supervision. The scents of smoky wood and pine, and sturdy storm windows dismiss the fragrance of fresh breeze from our home.

Soon snowflakes, poured in bulk, will hush our town. Trailblazing tots will crunch, climb, and slide across glittering hills. A lone, tardy goose will contrail the enormous, blue-ice sky, imploring: “Wait!” Honk. “Wait for me!”

I love winter.

But I dread the first frost.

Morning of mourning. I awaken and discover the shellacking of my gorgeous gardens. Herbs, flowers, shrubs stoop to earth- stunned, shriveled, stricken by nature’s Icy Wand.

“Avada Kedavra!”

My treasured friends have disappeared overnight. Joy, color, fragrance, cheer- snatched by Icy Wand. Surely he snickered in the darkness as he crisscrossed my earth, leaving life blackened and stilled.

Begonias, cosmos, dahlias, daisies. I greeted them each morning- sipped coffee, guarded swimmers, read and wrote by their side. Petunias, pansies, geraniums, marigolds.  I tended to their needs- watered, fertilized, and pruned.  Hydrangeas, zinnias, roses, lilies.  I gathered them into my home, shared them with neighbors, featured them at every celebration. Clematis, fern, snapdragons, mums. Treasured friends, all.  

I loved them. They listened to my stories. Swayed at my jokes. Pricked at prowlers. Convinced bee and butterfly to hum harmony to my melody.

Rain, sun, cloud, fog.  My friends never failed to support and delight.

Until this morning of mourning. I awaken and find I have been robbed by Icy Wand. 

Not fair.  Not right. Don’t remind me of the cycle of the seasons, spring, and rebirth. 

Left alone, I will look after my orchids, philodendron, and poinsettias. And when Spring Awaits, I’ll look forward to the return of my treasured friends.

I wish they never had to leave.  

 


QUING HEREBY DECREES:  Flowers on the table.  Fresh herbs in the kitchen.  Buds and blossoms in our presence, all year long.