Ghost apples

Cast in ice by the lost-sauce method, in the polar vortex:  a fortuitous Goldsworthy, an unwritten poem.

Many thanks to rushthatspeaks  for this image.

It's been a serendipitous winter for secondhand book-finds:  Andy Goldsworthy : ephemeral works, 2004-2014 (wood, water, ice, rock, shadow, leaves, petals, and some new work using pollen or chalk-dust to reify light); two volumes of the Library of America Le Guin (I sat straight down and reread Orsinia); The Art of Florence in two volumes and a slipcase, weighing rather more David's left thigh, and I could have used some Tuscan quarrymen to lug it home); A.S. Byatt's Peacock & Vine : on William Morris and Mariano Fortuny; The Voynich manuscript in full facsimile...

Oh, reason not the need!

And speaking of utterly unneeded frivolities, I broke down and got that wooden jigsaw of the Primavera I've been sighing over for years.  So far, I've just sifted through the pieces, admiring:  leaves, flowers, fairies, a lion and a unicorn, Pegasus, a griffin, a green man, a centaur, a satyr, a salamander, musicians, dancers, acrobats, an endless knot like the soundhole of a lute.  Now all I need is a table to do it on.

Nine

Nine