The other trees have long since dropped their leaves, but I hold all six of mine. Through their bare branches, I can see an occasional oak in the distance still holding their leaves too.
I understand what snow is, now, and ice and winter. The crystal skies I had been promised now stand above me, perfect black with blazing stars looking down in a kind of holy silence. The world sleeps under a blanket of snow nearly as deep as I am tall.
Most winters are peaceful, the trees told me. Indeed, swaddled in beauty such as this, I have trouble imagining the furious howls of the swirling winds from just last year. The creeping frost, spreading along the ground like choking vines until the biggest and strongest tree fell victim to the unnatural cold.
But this is a good winter, they say. A time for sleep and thought and gazing at the stars.
I am grateful for nights like this.