In This Little Pattern of Houses

Winter is definitely still winning, and although the cold is wearing, how refreshing it is to step outside and walk around my neighborhood. I realize I won't always live in this little pattern of houses, so its important to me to notice the subtle things that one might otherwise just pass by. Like the homes with old red brick, some revealing cracks, others covered in ivy, faded yet steadfast against the bitter cold winter and extreme heat of July. Or the trees with roots and a fullness that says they've been there longer than the families that live only meters away, grown to shelter the streets, provide shade in the summer, a fluttering of leaves and piles below come fall, and a stark silhouette against the setting winter sun. 

Its important to notice these things, and store up little anecdotes like how that one house always has that one dog, and how come night or day, rain or shine, he stands watch just waiting to stick his damp charcoal nose through the fence and let me know who's boss. Or how the bookstore down the way always has a Barbara Kingsolver title setting in its window display, reminding me of my favorite tales of family and daughters in her book The Poisonwood Bible, while also nudging me to finish my never-ending read of The Prodigal Summer. And how the alleyways are like little galleries, a collection of street art, or plant art, or patterns of burnt and ash against walls that have taken their stand on these Denver streets, through and through--seeing their fair share of trash, ferrel cats, and broken glass sparkling, scattered, reflecting the bright Colorado sun.

Its important to package it all up, so I don't forget. Its important so that I can remember to be thankful for these winter walks, in this little pattern of houses, on these days where the sun always seems to be two hours ahead--where I am chasing it, asking for one more hour, one more glimpse of warmth. Winter is still winning, and when I catch up to its setting sun, I see the beauty of its early slumber, the melancholy of the winter night sounds, and the hope that winter instills--of warmth, of growth, of Spring.