The Withered Tree Blossoms

by Jody Wilson

Nothing expresses the constancy of change more beautifully than the changing of the seasons. Snow on green grass turns to ice even as it melts. The early crocus shivers in the near frigid morning light. Near frigid, but not quite. Not quite winter, not quite spring.

Yesterday we ate our lunch in front of open windows, the warm breeze ruffling the cats' fur as they napped happily in the weak sunshine. Today there is the smell of damp wool and old wood fires and the dogs have put their tails between their chilly legs once again. When will it be sunny? When will it be warm? When will it be truly Spring? When will I die? How will I live? All sorts of irrelevant questions come up, demand our attention and dissolve into the moment. It's Spring, after all. A new beginning. Or is it? We think of Spring as a rebirth. But for Winter, it is an ending - a death. Neither good nor bad. Spring inevitably follows Winter. That's all. No more, no less.

"Summer at its height -
And snow on the rocks!
The death of winter - and the
Withered tree blossoms."
-Zen Saying