Black Brush

Hues of morning blue and white light brimming over the roof line of the Boston brownstones. A stately tree, spare with rimed, wiry branches - brush bristles - puncturing the sky. Tiny naked bones missing their verdant flesh. It is early. I leave for the T and the cold runs deep, seeping through the thick material of my parka. I miss my scarf, a fuzzy rainbow knitted with love. My bare neck weakened - the entry point for evil pricks of frigid air. A January chill making its presence known early, a reminder of the winter yet to come. It's still autumn but nature knows no deadlines.

This is time when we close into ourselves, wrapping our bodies and souls in all things warm. Everything is clean, dry, stark. Hair, tamed by the mighty iron, stays in its place, defying the native curl. Skin tightens then breaks, chafing into small white flakes. My own uncomfortable snow. Thank goodness for lotions and gels that irrigate these dry dermal pastures. I am thankful for the warmth of my home, the items to ease the winter roughness, the light that ignites the darkened scenes of these months, and the love that inspires millions in this profoundly magical time.