Poplar leaves clap hands as they drop in whispers. In the scent of old wood is a perfume of lost forests. Fir trees uner their meringue bow heads and limbs, Encased in crystal shine like prisms in the moonlight. The earth winter white. The North wind blows in the chimney.
Snow drifts through cracks.
Shrubs scratch with icy fingers at the windowpanes. The crackling fire is voracious. In New England Seasons, I tried to give you the all the senses that someone like myself that lives here takes for granted. I want the reader to be able to identify with the different temperatures of each season. Please give me your memories when you read these various parts.