These last few days, as I walked about the Street, watching my feet, avoiding the bits of trash, squashed cigarette cartons, empty juice boxes, discarded one-shot liquor bottles, I found myself amazed at a delicate beauty newly arrived. As I stepped past the decaying disposable diaper box that has been three days now in front of the corner house, caught a blowing newspaper with my free hand, I looked down and thought -- perhaps incongruously, perhaps miraculously -- of winter gardens.
As every crack has filled with velvet moss, broken sidewalks transform to road maps of imagined realms, vibrant exuberant magical places. Wild rivers are marked out in green, some with islands and some with spreading deltas caving into invisible seas.
Who wouldn't want to pause momentarily, decide which path to take, maybe climb those mountains?
I love winter wreaths alive with holly berries, but I want to dive into those mossy rivers of green.