Yellowed candy apple leaves floated down the skies and melted into the grassy brown earth.
The wind sang in her ears.
It shrieked with delight, whipping and twirling more leaves, causing them to dance a forceful Allegro!
The sun crackled from a fire on the horizon, and her heart drank in winter like a warm chimney puffing softly in the folded hills that seemed to request snow.
Their bareness needed a covering.
Who made a storehouse for the snow?
It was the same one who opened the water spouts.
The same one who filled the womb.
His breath had filled everything with LIFE, and He was tossing up dead leaves to the wind.
She wrapped the scarf around her cheeks and felt guilty for loving the sandy beaches that left the soles of her feet as warm as her heart that burst at the sound of the ocean’s voice, which was louder and grander than the greatest sound she had ever heard– minus the cries of her son’s taking their first breaths.
He was born in November and tossed with gold. A grandson named Truth.
Such wonders untold.
Holding life in the palms of her hands.
Letting go of dead things.
Sweeping leaves up from her floor into heaps to burn.
Watching the faces of her son’s dream a dream, and seeing it come forth from the bitter bare hills of nothing.
Could something so warm be born in the month of Cheshvan?
Could a flood of water pour over her and her seed?
Although her legs felt like dead trunks, suddenly, she could leap like a prima donna assoluta.
The sky opened its gates, and the birds all gathered in place.
They were as white as the snow that had started to fall in a steady rhythm.
The sound of stringed instruments and a fragrance of cassia, myrrh, and cinnamon bark dripped from the trees, and they began to bud with new leaves in the midst of winter.
Almond buds like cherry tree blossoms weighted down the arms of the trees, and she glided ever so softly into His hand, and He carried her to a quiet place.
“Rest my child,” He said, and this time she was obedient and did.