When January Pulls You Under

& Ode to a Winter Tree

January is a hard month. Cold, sharp, fragile, dark. The sun hits low and doesn’t stay long.

It’s the birth of a new year, the death of an old. And it has a tendency to pull me under.

It’s the month my father died. It’s the month we buried my youngest sister. It’s the month I escaped from my husband.

But it’s also the month all three of my children were born. And my youngest grandchild. And a niece. And another niece’s daughter.

It’s a month of going through the motions, often in the dark, as only a more productive alternative to hibernating.

We think of it as the beginning of the year. A fresh start. A new discipline. But that is more rightly spring’s dominion.

January is a month to endure. Survive. Heal.

In my tiny way of recognizing the winter solstice, always looking for beauty, I’ve been posting images of winter trees on Notes for the past month: Winter Branches

Thank you to those who liked, commented and restacked them.

By a long shot, Substackers liked this photo (a black and white version here) the best:

Here is my latest poem to celebrate trees that know how to survive winter.

Ode to a Winter Tree

Dead to the world

Bleak, black, bruised

Your branches claw skyward

Reach woefully for life

They snap, heave, sigh

Under the weight

Of ice, snow, sleet

Silent stoic sentinel

Wiser than winter

Your roots heavily earthbound

Draw sustenance

From Nature’s wealth

Quiet quintessence of calm

Beauty amid chaos

You don’t need hope

When you have

Seasonal knowledge

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