And suddenly, here I am on a grey November day, the bit of earth I inhabit moving steadily into winter. While a few trees still hold on to their varicolored leaves, they are a dwindling minority.
The magnolia outside the front window is bare–or would seem to be at a casual glance. On closer observation, the skeletal branches are not completely lifeless: each one is tipped with a closely furled bud, clad tightly in a furry case. It would seem that the tree is confused, soon to encounter the frustration of its Spring hopes.
Many months will pass before the promise each bud whispers comes to fruition in flowers and leaves, but come it will.The tree need only wait.