Winter
The calendar says winter is here, but nature begs to differ. It’s still so warm and humid, a weather pattern that used to manifest itself in November, and which keeps advancing towards the end of the year. The garden is subdued and quiet, as if reflecting on the passing year.
There is no sadness in its sleepy landscape, rather a reduction in intensity. The colors are muted in the filtered light; the air feels balmy and soft, a soothing environment with nothing of the brashness of true winter that will come calling in January.
There is nothing comfortable about the depth of winter, whose chill makes nostrils stick together and whose bright sunshine reflects off snow crystals and turns the light so harsh in the desiccated frigid air it makes your eyes hurt.
Even the footsteps are too loud on the frozen snow and critters can’t be bothered to come out of their burrows.
Every detail fights for prominence on the monochrome background, a red cardinal perched morosely on a branch, a clump of dried grass plumes, black coneflower seed heads.
Winter hasn’t even started and I’m already exhausted just thinking about it; thank goodness for warm fireplaces, hot cocoa, cozy chairs and soft cotton blankets.
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