Returned from the snow farm for the last few days of the year’s closing book. Serene here, too— quiet and white-blanketed. Few people are on the sidewalks, chilled and brittle. The emptiness of the playground today: a witness to the mercury, its height diminished despite bright sun.
And here we meet our fabricated bookends for time, believing we can hold or control it; we note it and name it to preserve the illusion. All is change, even the end of things, like the dying year to be replaced or born anew this midnight. Supplanted by new hopes, optimism in the dark corner of the year. Rebirth, Springtide: a crocus fighting her way up through a crust of snow.
Her bloom and demise are written in the maths that make her. Only we personify it, make a mirror of her. We with our imagined souls are infinitely fragile. So we make of her a beacon.
We’ll wait for her in the darkness yet to come. We’ll look for her as we burn through the woodpile, stacked under the eaves last fall. And as we watch the icicles melt, painting the days toothless, mild, and green again.
*from the poem ”To the New Year” by W. S. Merwin
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 
this is so pretty
Thank you!
Beautiful thoughts. Your imagery made me think of life’s seasons, on my mind much lately, and the rebirths that mar each new beginning.
Thank you so much.
These are nice, crisp shots. I see the old silo has decided to add a shaggy coat.
Thanks! The silo, crumbling in slow motion, has long been shaggy in its ivy coat.
The words and images are rather wonderful. Happy New Year.
Why thank you, and Happy New Year. Thanks for reading.