The Mist

I just went for an evening walk through The Public Garden. Probably not the safest thing to do alone after dark, but I couldn't resist the fog. It was so warm, and the mist so thick, that only the lights and their halos were clear; the rest was shrouded in a veil too seductive not to lift.

Never let it be said that trees lose their beauty in the winter. Freed of their obscuring leaves, the cathedral-like willows show their breathtaking architecture. Short and craggy trees that, in summer, command no more attention than a fence post become intricate narratives of branches, coiling and krinkling ever outward, like a novel with no reachable beginning or end. The hard snow-covered rose beds incubate next season's beauties, but are all the more beautiful now for the intricate lacings of twigs exposing their weblike and ambitious armature.

I've walked through The Gardens at the high hilt of autumn and have been (and always will be) awestruck by her dazzling multi-colored October ensemble.

A woman in autumn in a grande ball gown is beautiful, and has assembled auxillary beauty around her.

A woman beautiful in winter... naked, proud, growing, life-sustaining... still beautiful without her leaves when the foggy mist has lifted.