“The breath of God produces ice...”
The Great Ice Storm had overwhelmed the garden. The day was cold. Hedydd was cold. Even her warm woolens and flannel petticoat were no protection against the bite of this unexpected chill, and she had forgotten her mittens in her haste to inspect any damage.
The Black Bamboo bowed low, spiky leaves sketching odd figures on the frosty ground. The Crape Myrtle shivered. The Gardenia crackled as Hedydd brushed by on her way to Nathaniel’s Bower. The thaw was come, but the fig trees there were still sheathed in ice. A breeze blew softly, and melting icicles, shaken from twig and branch, pelted the ground in captivating percussion. Hedydd had never experienced a Winter so cruel, yet as she listened, something pleasant stirred in her Arboreal Memory. It was a rare concert she was audience to; a music unfamiliar to this particular garden. Yet deep in her Tree, she was aware of a thousand Winters in a thousand Forests and recalled this seasonal song of hope; the Breath of Spring.