Hungry

I'm hungry for color. My eyes devour it as though starving for vitality and spice on a grey landscape. It's like food for thought when my mind is famished.

Seeds cling to these branches because they are life, regenerating.

When winter winds blow we scurry inside, waiting for spring's first warm breezes. But the trees wait more patiently that we do.

I remind myself on a daily basis that the shortest day of winter, the day with the least daylight, is behind us already. The longest day is slowly, gingerly inching its way to us.

The trees always know first. But they aren't saying anything yet.