Voices on the Wind Voices in the Garden
Patience of the Old by m.e.jackson When autumn colors tip the ends of summerís emerald leaves, the magic of photosynthesis appears. Sunís energy mysteriously converted to nutrition and oxygen has depleted the green chemical called chlorophyll. Slowly the pigments hidden behind deep greens emerge in all their splendor beginning with leaves closest to sunlight and my eyes. As each day progresses toward the nakedness of winter, I watch and wait. With the wisdom of an aged woman I gaze in wonder at the gnarled sky-reaching limbs of towering sycamores and oaks, the bouquet arms of the maples, and fluttering twigs of dogwoods and red buds. Dressed for a golden autumn dance the branches sway rhythmically to approaching winter winds waiting for the stroke of midnight when the party ends with stinging ice and cold. Until the cloak of sparkling snow graces their bare limbs, I wait. With the patience of the old I watch as autumnís gilded display metamorphoses into winter black and white.