Outside my Magic Cottage, under the shadows of looming cedars, a length of ivy snakes up a young hemlock tree. The hemlock gasps in refusal to succumb to the ivy’s stranglehold. It shows me, instead, its silvery needles turned toward the heavens in offering.
In apparent recognition of the hemlock’s courage, the cedars shake loose their fronds and bestow the hemlock’s naked limbs with brown baubles. It is as if the cedars, through the hemlock, acknowledge their own mortality.