A time of transition, the doll tree, ribbons of melt
The dolls stare back at me blankly, their fixed gaze weather-beaten after the long winter. Nails hold them aloft, driven deep into the trunk of the trees. The bride has gone bald since I last saw her, her veil and dress in tatters. One eye seems to be slowly sliding down her face. She has had a rough night or two. I sympathize.
There are more dolls nailed to trees, everywhere I look, in various states of decay. I salute the doll trees and keep on walking.
The ground doesn’t know what to do with itself. Five months of heavy snow that still haven’t entirely melted leave the land shaking its head, staggering under a winter hangover. Other parts of the country are already reporting temperatures of up to 80 degrees, which seems like a fever dream. I pick my way through ribbons of snow scattered over the soil, my breath puffing up around me in small clouds.
These things unfold at their own pace and can not be rushed. Something tells me that as time goes on, I will more and more appreciate my winter retreat. I have become ice and snow, a slowing down, a waiting.
Persephone will grace me with her presence when she feels like it, and not a moment sooner. I can’t say that I am seeing much beauty in the brown, but nature isn’t asking my opinion on the matter.
I keep on walking, keep moving in a forward direction, and wait to see what happens next. I remain curious. Something is bound to happen.