WRITING: Seasonal Being

I dread the coming of winter. I am old, and can feel the snap of cold in the morning air earlier than the striplings around me. There is less food, there is a yellowness to my pallor that seeps in during the nights this late in the summer. My clothes are too thin and I seek something new, bright and bold for the grand Halloween party that is our traditional end to the season. But then, after that…I remember and grimace at standing bare naked in noondays that never feel real heat of the sun. It would be nice, I suppose, to move way down south where my relatives live; they claim they feel comfortable all the year through. But I’ve heard of the storms, the dangers of wind and the rain that can beat down the best. It worries me more, so I stay seeing this is what I’m used to; besides, my roots are planted deep in the north. Though it would have been nice–as I envy my brothers around me, dripping in shaggy blue-greens that they live in all year–perhaps in my next life, I shall come back as an evergreen, maybe a spruce.