The past week of wicked wind has stripped my Japanese maple almost bare. I hadn't realized until now how much I've come to love it's slow transfer to deep reds and oranges as Thanksgiving approaches. It's usually the last tree to give up it's green and succumb to winter's pull, and somehow this resistance gives me the motivation I need to push through the beginning of the cold, the rain, the darkness that smacks my heart this time every year. Some love fall - I don't. And this year, my maple and I are united in the sudden, wretched yank from sweet, sunny, long days to the season of too many clothes, chronic mood lulls and holiday weariness. Spring, please come soon.
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