Winter solstice, shortest day of year.
Leaves of the almost-laurel showed winter withered and blood maroon, dark hued faces and undersides of brown and blend-faded green. Nearer to earth, closer to porch’s shelter from frost and winter’s kill, low leaves kept green, but they were few and far between.
Winters could be that way: season of sustain, manage and endure until restoring warmth and life’s awakening again.
He smoked his cigar in the day, descent of the sun from mid-day’s height cast light on where he sat. He stared on the broad spanned maple of yard, naked in its stand, tips of its boughs and branches swelled, like almost-laurel, in blood red winter blooms—sustaining and enduring in wait for awakened’s warmth.
Air of winter hued his face, cheeks and nose blood maroon in blush to winter’s touch. Like the signs in season around, he too endured in wait for warmth and spring’s awaken.