“ I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape – the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.” ~Andrew Wyeth
The long winter of the Ranges has settled in. Relentless cloud covered days of misty rain, cold winds and icy mornings take up the bulk of the week, driving people indoors to their warm fires to read books, bake cakes and knit.
Every now and then there is an afternoon or morning of clear skies and sunshine, but the air still bites your face as you step expectantly from the warmth of your home out into the sharp winter air. Hats, coats, scarves and gloves. Getting dressed to go out is a much longer process.
Bulbs are popping up in empty garden beds. Little surprises waiting to hatch at the end of winter into tulips, daffodils, jonquils and anemones. The Bloodgrass has been ruthlessly chopped down to three inches tall. It is but a shadow of its summer glory. The green stems of the Feather Reeds are almost all yellow, signalling that it is almost their time to be cut back in a brutal manner.
Trees are weeping, raining down orange, yellow and red confetti. It settles on the lawn, slowly turning brown and then disappearing back into the earth mysteriously. Some trees still seemingly hold all of their leaves, transformed into tall blazing pillars that look shocking against the grey skies. Other trees are skeletons. On close inspection there are beginnings of buds that promise a snowy display of blossom come spring.
The garden, in a sense, seems to be dying. There are hints of the lush, colour and vitality that will present itself in Spring, but for now it is Winter.