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a place of your own

the sleeping garden

I walk through the sleeping garden, footsteps muffled by the freshly fallen snow, watching the clean white reflect a rosy and baby blue watercolor sky. Everything is quieter  now, a natural silent chamber. There is a delicate softness and peace in this cool pastel surrounding, like a very old photograph, dulled by the passing of time, of things long gone.

Here and there an earthy seed head or a golden plume of grass moves gently with the breeze, and birds sift snow from the tree leaves above looking for shelter. There are no scents, just the unmistakable chill that fills the nostrils and makes them stick.

It almost seems like nature tries to make up for the cold by providing the most spectacular sky displays, the colder, the more colorful. Since today was not exceedingly cold, we are going with soft pastels. The really frigid days are the ones that sing bright orange, red and violet sunsets.

The sleeping stillness of the garden imposes a weird reverence, one almost feels like whispering for no reason. Snow keeps falling gently, quieting my thoughts.