The view from my southern back window is lightened this morning, the garden itself somehow cleaner and calmed. In contrast, the front, north-facing windows are opaque with ice, mere light without form in their distance. Under the weight of solid water, the Sawtooth Oak on the left sighs and spreads, hoping to ease the burden of load.
I worry for the trees, especially the proud but precarious Redbud to the west. The favorite of Mrs. ProfessorRoush, a stiff wind could undo it in seconds, cracking it to kindling in a contest of will. The existing gale already broke the resolve of the garden's photographer, sending him fleeing into the warmth of house, to the fire of hearth.
There will be no further sticky-fingered tree frogs on my bottle tree, blue cobalt turned death trap for amphibian skin. Summer is long past, and I pray that whatever moist skinned creatures survived the droughts of August have long burrowed into shelter.
|'Fru Dagmar Hastrup'|
The orange hips of Carefree Beauty are preserved today, cased in glass, but will soon turn brown and shrivel. So to, the relucent redder rugosa hip of 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup' will dim to dull. Life in these hips has been stolen by the relentless ice, the seeds yet to spill upon the ground.
The cherub of the peony bed presides over all, calm and quiet, chaste and cool, reminding that this day was anticipated, nay expected, in the course of seasons. The gardener heeds the stoic stone at last, slowing heartbeat, resting thoughts, reassured that the garden will survive again the orbit of years.