Snowflakes pirouetted like ballerinas in crystalline tutus. Scrims of white came in flurries, gusts, and wind-pushed whooshes. Allegro!
Snow, billowing, beautiful snow.
At last. Nearly two weeks past the white Christmas I dreamed of. Bundled up in layers for the first time this so-called winter, off I went walking…and singing…
For the past several weeks, and months too early, quince blossoms glowed dusky pink, golden jasmine wafted forsythia-like, and daffodils pushed one, two, six inches out of the ground. The Lenten roses opened too, and a cherry tree budded out at the edge of an apple orchard. I opened windows and doors to the spring-like air. We sat outside to have our tea, played cards in the sun.
Too early, too soon.
Retailers complained that winter apparel isn’t selling. People dashed about in shorts and flip-flops.
Today, the wind is cold, the thermometer is stuck below freezing, and the heat creaks on and off frequently. More, more. Encore!
Mahonia, already setting berries.
Snow blurs quince’s pink.
Hellebores ‘Lenten rose’
Jasmine, too soon.
Daffodils shiver bravely.
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
— Emily Bronte (1818-1848)
I love watching the leaves flutter around me while I sit on the garden bench with a book and a cup of coffee. Even raking leaves is pleasant for me. My husband, not so much. Every year he complains about their vast numbers, always wanting me to estimate how many leaves there are compared to how many there might have been last year. He fusses and sweeps and bags, never happy until that last leaf falls.
Today, Mother Nature is showing off the best of two seasons: light snow swirls like glitter in a snow globe, while leaves swoop to color November’s strange beauty with their brilliant reds and golds.
Bronte’s poem sings to me.