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The Hiding Place
by Crystal Trojek
March 10, 2013

The relentless wind is thrashing every tree, disrobing them of the last few brittle leaves. They frantically dance away on the frosty air, greeting the first snowflakes as they spin and swirl away to catch the barren corners of the garden. The snowflakes gather as a horde of advancing locusts, searching for every hidden spot along the ground, and soon they craft a frosty blanket that perfectly fits each element of the color deserted garden. The desolate trees and bare shrubs stretch out their empty arms in an attempt to gather the persistent snow, which mocks them now as dead soldiers who flaunt no more their pretty leaves of red, yellow, and orange. Their tumbling fires of autumn color are forgotten and have disappeared like the setting sun. The largest trees sway and twist in a slow waltz, but creak and groan in protest to the persistent strength of the first winter storm.

The hidden sun declines to watch the wind as it drives the snow over and under, around and through each naked shrub and cluster of bare stalks that mark like graves the empty garden. With each passing hour, the snow transforms the abandoned garden, for the frigid air will costume every player in close fitting robes of spotless white, or icy shadows of glass that paralyze each stem. And so the winter comes with unforgiving strength to swallow every color and crush every spirit that weakly protests. Such is what is left above the snow, and those that suffer so in winter’s ruthless hands can only faintly whisper, “Let me die!”

This scene beyond the window glass leads forlorn souls along a path so dark and subtle that smothers the light in such dark shadows. But I know what lies unborn below the frosty air, what wonders rest in frozen soil.

I know that such as the hyacinth is sleeping, until the sun and moon agree to kiss the bulbs awake. That pair will form a solemn pact to prod such fragile souls to leave their dreams and stretch towards the heavens once again. The sun will command each plant with a gentle ferocity, and urge the trees to burst with fresh green leaves. The moon will guard the unfolding spring, and sing the grass to green at morning light. The colors that emerge in spring are shards of dying rainbows, re-born to celebrate the end of winter’s reign. The flowers of spring are so divine they need no voice to honor themselves, for who could describe such a miracle with mere words?

Crystal is a Floral designer/ Seasonal Decorater/Garden Writer and Past President, Master Gardeners of Ontario

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