Dear January,
You are long and bleak, you are monochromatic and suffocating.
You curl around yourself like a sleek grey cat, turned inward, oblivious and self-assured, unfazed by your chilling effect. I want to like you, to embrace you to see the good in your wintry silence, but your indifference haunts me and I am left counting the days until spring.
How early in the year it begins to be late! It matters not by how little we have fallen behind: it seems irretrievably late. The year is full of warnings of its shortness, as is life.
from The Journal 1837–1861 by Henry David Thoreau
planting new things
flea markets and farmer’s markets
birthday cake
open windows at night
shades of green
long spring evenings
the heart skips a beat for the early days of October
i looked everywhere for you,
and in the end–
you were exactly where i had left you
as winter continues to unfurl in all of its cold, crystal beauty, we long for fields of wildflowers
it was the season of soft sienna
and stewing oatmeal,
of cool nights and mist filled mornings
with crows calling for the day to open once again
spanishwoods 