Winter Haze

Winter.  Frost and fog outside.  Warmth and fire inside.  The calendar and the movement of the planets falsely claim the season is fall, but ProfessorRoush says it's winter.

Winter.   What is it good for? Pictures, perhaps, like the one above, the sun captured, weakened by distance and the inclination of this orb, unable to penetrate the haze of humid air the night has frozen into submission.   No breeze, not a creature stirring here, all waiting for the sun to penetrate and soften the icy knives of frost.  

Or pictures, perhaps of happier thoughts and colorful moments, the annual home Christmas tree shining glorious even in the morning light.   Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I decided this year to leave the tree unburdened by ornaments, the plain lights a symbol, perhaps, of our innate desire for simple quiet and peaceful stars, a holiday of joy and rest.  We've left off the hundred collected ornaments, some homemade, others a treasured gift or purchase.  It may be a fake tree of metal and plastic, but it serves the purpose, lit each night in the front window as a beacon to faraway children and friends; "Here is home."

Odd?  Or not, perhaps, for a gardener to prefer artificial trappings for Christmas rather than a collected and distantly transported tree.  This year I won the annual tug-of-war between Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who prefers the dying, pine-scented, needle-dropping "natural" tree, and myself, who prefers my negative environmental impact displayed through the manufacture of plastic and LED's.  This tree may be phony, it may be fabricated, but at least it isn't singing the song of death in the house as it slowly dries and dies, snatched from a forest of others to perish alone.

Ten o'clock, and the sun seems to be losing the battle against winter today, rather than gaining.  The predicted high for today has already been cut by 4ºF and I fear it will soon cede more to the fog.  My planned trek to clean out bluebird houses may have to wait, wait for a warmer day and a braver caretaker.   I feel the weight of responsibility for my bluebird trail, but not at the expense of stiff fingers and frostbit toes.  There is time enough to wait on the sun to lead me out, to beckon me from a clear horizon and warm the air.   Time enough for winter to come and be gone, away like the fog and the frost, if the sun gets its way.