The trees that have been so beautiful are shedding their finery and taking on their severe winter aspect. 
On Tuesday, the big mulberry in the pasture was a blaze of chrome yellow. Then the air got cold--into the twenties--and on Wednesday morning, there was a chrome yellow carpet at the base of the bare-branched tree. 
Roses still bloom in a sheltered spot, but the cold time is upon us.
My mind turns to baking, to soups and stews, to reading by the fire, to painting in the sunny dining room.
I love having four distinct seasons--even if the season we're entering is my least favorite. The bare trees let us see the shape of the land, and the barren aspect of that land is deceptive--not dead but awaiting a glorious resurrection.
Spring wouldn't be half so sweet if it didn't follow bitter Winter.
