The garden was completely covered in ice, with the exception
of one tree, though the vegetation around the perimeter was lush.
Curious, I followed the path through the open gate. It was
as though time was suspended in a January state. The air was chill and a small
breeze incited whirls of dancing snow. My breath hung in crystals before my
face. My fingers quickly grew clumsy and slow. I feared that I too would become
frozen, a statue in this winter garden.
What had happened here? A confusion of nature? Or perhaps, a
magic spell cast by some jealous wizard. All that was certain was that summer
was trapped beneath a glaze of winter. With the exception of that one tree.
I struggled toward the green leaves and thick reaching
branches, drawn by the strange yellow fruit it bore. My bare feet snapped
through the layer of ice with each step. Soon my shins, calves and ankles were
laced with fine cuts, the path behind me littered with drops of red. Yet I
pushed on.
As I faced the tree it dawned on me that each yellow fruit pulsed
and glowed with the heat of a small sun. Their collective warmth was what kept
the tree from succumbing to the numbing cold.
I placed my hands on the trunk, appreciating the
thawing comfort, then wrap my arms around so the length of my body is in contact. I am
warmed. I am renewed.
