Winter came roaring in overnight riding on the back of a wild north wind.
Yesterday and for weeks prior we basked in a late Indian summer. The roses bloomed more profusely than they bloomed in June and mounds of late chrysanthemums glowed in the mellow sunlight.
‘But that was yesterday Now snow blankets the garden and the roses are entombed in ice. The garden swing where only yesterday I rocked myself into a gentle slumber now sways in the wind as though some ghostly presence was reclining on its snow covered cushions.
In our minds we all knew winter was bound to arrive sooner or later. That it came later than we expected it to arrive and with such sudden ferocity caught us off guard. Most of us were still using lawn mowers. Even late yesterday afternoon my neighbor was mowing his lawn.
Snow blowers and snow shovels were pushed to the back of the garage where we stored them at the end of March with no regrets.
There’s something almost surreal seeing snow clinging to the vibrant pink roses even as they valiantly resist the north winds assault knowing they cannot win.
So now is the time of leaden skies and tattered low flying clouds, of bitter cold and winter dormancy, of stark and barren landscapes painted in ermine with the black silhouette of skeletal trees embossed against grey horizons.
But only yesterday it was summertime.
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