What the trees tell us

I was looking out my window this morning, at the cold, grey day and at how naked our tree has become.
Two weeks ago it still looked like this:

But the blustery weather of late has stripped it utterly. There are precisely four leaves still hanging on, in golden-hued defiance of the deepening Winter. I was reminded of a children's poem, printed in the first book I was ever given:

Morning Is A Little Child
by Joan Walsh Anglund

The book was given to my father as a gift for me, on the occasion of my birth, by the owner of Dubray Books. Then, just one shop, known as The Bray Bookshop. My father was one of their first (and possibly best!) customers. He even had a tab, like a bar tab, with the shop until very recently. Imagine!

I still have my book and have already read it to my girls. It has beautiful illustrations and simple, but evocative poems for children. This is the one I was reminded of:

A leaf is a letter
from a tree
that writes, in gold,
"Remember me!"