Blackberry Winter

I walk the old path every morning,
relearning trust—
foot to earth, earth to foot.

Last May’s late frost killed everything tender.
Trees stood skeletal
against a white sky.
I was brittle as frozen canes,
sure nothing would grow again.

But summer came anyway,
defiant.
Green.
And you—

You appeared as leaves unfurled,
small promises despite scarred bark.
We walked beneath the canopy
and you taught me the names again:
yearling oaks,
white pines,
copper beeches turning light cathedral-green.

Your voice made music
of ordinary words.
Wind through branches kept time.

The trees grew full, generous.
We carved initials.
Built shelters.
Swore our names would outlast the forest.

This morning—
frost on blackberry blooms.
May again.
New leaves curling black on the branch.

You stood shivering,
wrapped in your grandmother’s quilt,
and I recognized the look:
the same one I wore
a year ago.

It’s just blackberry winter,
I said.

But we both knew—
there are those built for steady seasons,
and those who arrive with unexpected cold,
leave with it too,
can only thrive
in the brief green between frosts.

You’re gone now,
beyond the tree line.

I walk the same path
beneath bare branches,
checking the horizon,
waiting to see what survives.

The locals say
blackberry winter makes trees stronger,
their green more vivid
when it returns.

I’m still here,
waiting to find out
if that’s true.