The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought,
Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught
In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront
Implacable winter’s long, cross-questioning brunt.
— D.H. Lawrence, “Winter in the Boulevard”
Soon barren limbs stand against cold skies, the trees having lost their summer clothes in trade for winter’s stark embrace.
Soon cold winds blow from the north, ushers carrying forth the season of bleak refrains.
Soon that which is verdant gives way to that which is desolate, hibernation of life in many forms taking away from the breath of nature.
Soon dry leaves blow in a sound we all recognize.
Soon chills beset us lest we robe ourselves in the woolen armor of winter dress.
Soon fires burn in fireplaces and furnaces roar to fight back the cold.
Soon there will be winter in the boulevard.
I can’t wait.