piles of books and many naps
coffee, tea and mushroom caps
deer tracks in the crystal snow
pooh and piglet always know
how to let the happy grow
in you, in me, above, below
the branches of our fevered dreams
that glitter, glow and brightly gleam
January is proving to be snowy and cold with white skies and treacherous roads. I marvel at the frozen beauty falling in a horizontal slant during a squall or drifting quietly out the kitchen window. My eyes are almost blinded by bright colors inside; I focus gently on softer hues, fairy lights, dried flowers, branches covered in yarn, books on snowflake photographs and these words from Thoreau:
January 1852: “The blue in my eye sympathizes with this blue in the snow….Would not snowdrifts be a good study,—their philosophy and poetry?” from The Journal 1937–1861 by Henry David Thoreau
glass hearts on the table
afternoon shadows on the door
heavy snow on the trees
The world outside has turned monochromatic, all shades of grey.
Juliet explores in the snow.
Inside, stacks of books are piled here and there. Dried flowers, pine cones and leftover slices of Christmas oranges are tucked into bowls. The tea brews. The afternoon edges closer to evening just as it starts to snow softly once again.
a frosted palette of grays
reflects the sentiment of these winter days
fox tails in the night
the crows at dawn
shadows on the snow
a soft crunch under worn boots
deep deer tracks
and
a bracing wind
words drifted—
brittle and dry
my thoughts fell silently,
quietly–
in a soft, early morning hush
hiding in the snow
I stand at the kitchen window on a winter afternoon when the sun is fading and the pink light reflects on the snow; soft, cottony pink and mauve with a blue tinge at the edges. I want to paint it, memorize it, eat it, inhale it, this tranquil light. As it grows darker, my reflection begins to materialize on the glass. Eventually, I’m left standing at the window facing an inky blue background behind the mirror image of my face, which looks old and tired; time has not been kind. But on this evening, it doesn’t matter–I am fortified by the light and the glow and the soft and graceful exit of the sacred winter sun.
spanishwoods 