Walden Woods in Winter

Walking out my door into the snowflakes, this morning the air was suspended. No hurry in passing. I watched the large sparkling crystal flakes waft past me. Winter dandelions.

I go to Walden, into that timeless space inside my mind. That happens on those occasions when nature takes me into her lair.

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I am standing on the white expanse of Walden, a tiny creature insignificant as a mound of discolored snow, on the brilliant stillness that she has become. Ice unflowing water.

I spread my arms hungry for the sun and I become a tree, rooted in her snow, reaching into heaven. Connecting.

I feel pulling, a need to bend my trunk. Right. Unbalanced? It’s ok for a tree to lean, to ask for support. The wind asks it of trees, doesn’t she?

The woods near Walden are smattered white and brown and wet. They speak silent trickles of melting snow. Birds I used to think were gone for the winter make their cheeping song. Brown sodden leaves are weeping mats, a fallen past bent over stumps of aged trees. Black mud drizzles ice and puddles.

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Yesterday I was lamenting about not having seen water for what seems like ages. Water in ponds, in rivers, water running. Not run off, not murky pools on roadsides of used to be snow melting in the midday temperatures over freezing. Real water, like I could immerse myself in on warmer days. It is everywhere, yet it is not to be seen. Hiding under white and grey and more white falling on white.

Yet I know when I open my eyes again to the rain and see it has melted on the trunk where a moment ago there was a soft white fluttering, that soon the water will be back to hold my body again.

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