The Garden of the Seasons: Finding the Light in the Snows of February

Still Falling 
You can almost see it falling, that nearly immaterial impersonation of matter Light sees it, catches itSays 'I know a secret'It's quietIts plan is to slip down, after dark, when no one can see it,one can almost never hear itone can feel it, if you remove your hatturn your face up to the sky, the deep blue nightand taste the winterthe softer airthe ambient light the subtly melting crystalson your tongue 







                              Sky Writing The sky is yellow, lemonishpink, somewhat insinuated by the lemon ice of snow-set tonesa softer blushan inscrutable silencethat impinges on the the skeletal brancheslike jewels in your hair 

Ravine 

Looking down from the path, the water slips beneath our feet, intent on its own progress, 

a dance of elements, throwing off radiance, a harvest of winter sunlight, incidental, as if a mere byproduct,

an accident of water, hurrying to itself 

Photographic Evidence

Old sheds in Iowa? Another winter day on the prairie?

The fence worn, swaying to the march of the seasons 

Branches catch the powder of the quiet fall, 

Another day of timeless snow: the element that teases the senses, erases the centuries, scrambles what we think we know 

Tinting 
Trees yellowing their hair

Where does the color come from? what time of day or night pastels the sky with the flat edge of some tool unavailable to human fingers
Tricks of the seasonThreads of time, woven in a soft fall one of those hundreds of Eskimo names whose speech we have yet to learn