Winter Beneath the Hawthorn

Dear Wanderer,

The Green Hawthorn holds its vigil,

its branches a quiet offering to the winter sky,

still adorned with a scattering of crimson berries—

the last gifts of the year.

They shine like tiny flames

against the muted tapestry of Tennessee’s December.

The land is bare, yet alive,

the air brisk with a clarity

that only cold mornings bring.

Frost laces the grass underfoot,

and the Hawthorn’s thorns, sharp and certain,

remind me that even beauty carries its defenses.

There is a hush to this season,

a slowing that feels like prayer.

The tree knows this rhythm well—

the waiting, the resting,

the unseen work of roots beneath frozen soil.

Christmas is near,

not in garlands or songs,

but in the quiet expectancy of creation.

The hawthorn’s steadfastness speaks of faith:

a trust that the barren branches will bloom again,

that the frost will yield to warmth,

that light will return to the earth.

Standing beneath its crown of thorns,

I feel the weight of this moment—

a sacred pause between the end and the beginning.

The Creator’s voice is here,

woven into the stillness,

whispering through the cold:

Be patient. Be present. Be held.

Let us, like the Green Hawthorn,

stand firm in the waiting.

For even in winter’s starkness,

there is beauty,

there is life,

and there is hope.

A Haiku

Hawthorn stands silent,

winter whispers holy truths—

light will bloom again.

Field Notes of a Wanderer