Mid-November has come shrouded in its predictable gloom
Which has set the sky to weeping from its heavy clouds of grey.
Somber as that may be autumn’s flowery remains yet bloom
Albeit droop amidst the decomposing ghosts of yesterday.
The garden, it is still and as silent as a tomb except for
The rain that varies from mists to showers to a downpour,
And there are no birds, no butterflies, no bees, no cats astray
Venturing forth from their dry haunts all the livelong day.
And I, I sit in front of the window and watch in a melancholy
Kind of funk, the cause of which I know not except to say
That like a chameleon perhaps I’ve taken on the colors of the day
But not because the rain, the silence, and the peacefulness are folly.
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. ~Philippians 4:6-7 ✝
Is it winter? Is it not?
Is it cold? Is it hot?
The two-headed Janus knows not.
Where I live unseasonable warming trends often occur in January, and when the month keeps its “box” open-ended long enough, some things in the garden are duped into thinking it’s time to get going. If the lie that spring is upon us continues on into February, that month as well is made a partner in the deceiving treachery. Then when the wintry weather falls back into place and worsens, as it nearly always does, the new growth is the innocent victim of the two traitorous libertines. Such is exactly what happened last year when they were finally exposed as the charlatans they were by a mid-February ice storm. After weeks of mild weather, frigid rain descended from a whitish cloud cover blown in on arctic winds. As the temperatures fell from the 70’s and 80’s to well below the freezing mark and everything became encapsulated in tombs of ice, an almost audible death knell sounded. For days the sun was unable to burn a hole in the clouds, and while the storm’s icy bite endured, the birds who over winter in my yard were, if visible at all, seen only in the mornings. When they were present, I’d see them huddled close to their birdhouses or in the bay tree or azaleas near the house, but by afternoon they’d have disappeared completely into the day’s dismal gloom. Neither did I see any of my neighbors nor the squirrels who’d been so busy as of late, and that collective absence of life forms led to a disturbing sense of aloneness that I did not like at all.
Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, for in you my soul takes refuge; in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, until the destroying storms pass by. Psalm 57:1 ✝