January 18, 2011

My dearest,

Last year’s pussy willow still stands in its pot in our dining room. Its white blossoms have a fine coat of grey; the red packets that hang from its branches are twelve months past their due. Yet spring has not arrived and the change of guard must wait a little longer. We keep our faith with our willow and we give thanks a while more. The tiger must give way to the rabbit, we know, but not for days, a couple of weeks. The pussy willow still smells as sweet, despite its greying white and its fading red.

Yours, ever and always.