Letting go

She paces from room to room, head low, eyes vacant, tail at half mast. In a smooth rhythm, her steps seem purposeful but she never reaches her destination.

She paces.

I stretch out my hand to touch the white spot between her ears. Startled, she jumps back, afraid. She no longer recognizes me and avoids even the gentlest of gestures.

Sadly, these days, all is not gentle. There are struggles to get into the car and into the house. There are struggles at the vet.

Anipryl does not work for her.

Letting go is always difficult.

In fall, the leaves turn and the weather cools. The days grow short. After the winter solstice, it snows. We know that it snows in winter, yet the day it arrives, we are startled by the silence and the cold.

In the garden, there is always spring at the end of winter. That is a special blessing reserved for plants.

January

At the end of January, the nights are long and the days are cold. Gardeners check the weather almanac every day to see when the worst of winter is over. And happily, the coldest days are behind us. In February, the temperature rises about 2 degrees a week. By the March equinox, it will feel like spring.

But first we must to get through today's winter storm.

The wildlife habitat is covered by a soft white blanket.

Sculptures have formed in Papas Garden.

Snow insulates the plants in pots from the cold.

Bird houses wear white stocking caps.

Heavy snow and blowing winds collapsed the Jackson vine, Smilax smallii. But there are few other problems.

Bird prints on the edge of the carport are large and deep. Perhaps a hawk, looking for something tasty hiding among the garden tools.

Snow and sleet are hard on animals in a backyard wildlife habitat.

Colts

Sunday afternoon in January. The house is quiet and the lights are low. A fire dances in the hearth. The couch is heavy with pillows and the Colts are on TV.

Someone lies on the couch, dozing during the commercials. I walk through the room. "Rainin' out," is the conversation.

Outside, the temperature is in the low 60's, a welcome relief from the long cold period this winter. As the sun sets, the air is thick and moist, as in early spring. The trees are bare and wildflowers sleep below a blanket of brown leaves. There is not much to compete with Peyton Manning on a widescreen TV.

The first blooms of the hellebores opened this week. These are the Brandywine strain and seemed to weather the arctic blasts better than other types.

The white hellebores are two weeks behind the pink and purple, and seem more delicate.

There is still plenty of fruit on the Jackson vine (Smilax smallii). Birds love to roost in this tangled vine and in my garden, chipmunks and squirrels make it their homes as well.

The roots of the ornamental kale had frozen solid in their pots, but they survived to provide a spot of color near the driveway.

In anticipation of spring, we are tempted to wish the winter away. But out of the browns and grays of winter, comes beauty.

Accumulation

One night snow dusted our town and accumulated on an ornamental cabbage planted near the kitchen door.

That evening, I moved my seashell collection to an old fishbowl. These were found years ago on beaches from Charleston to Chincoteague, yet I no longer remember collecting them.

For Christmas, I decorated our tree with faux maple leaves found in a box in the carport. I didn't hang the ornaments stored in boxes in the attic, even though there are hundreds.

Over time, things accumulate without anyone intending it to be so.

Leaves are excellent accumulators.

On on a frigid winter day, oak leaves warm the ivy. It is not much cover, but this winter is so cold, any assistance is deeply appreciated.

Leaves blow along the stones on the path, accumulating in small piles.

Beside the front porch, the accumulation of leaves formed a thick black layer of soil over the compacted clay. And on the driveway, the decaying leaves formed their own flower bed on the pavement for a group of self-seeding impatiens. This photo is from summer.

I no longer collect seashells or christmas ornaments. In recent years, accumulations have been unintentional. Beyond the pots, plants and ponds, a garden made from 10 years of hands in the soil. And a marriage made from 33 years as a couple.

Away

.

While I was away, the milkweed seeds burst out of their pods, floating on the wind to form a new generation.

The coral honeysuckle bloomed out of season, in defiance of the cold.





And while I was away, an oak tree fell. It had been in decline for years and a crossvine had woven its way to the top. In spring, the vine was a orange mass of trumpet blossoms, and in all other seasons, it was a shiny green cape that draped dramatically to the ground.

A high wind blew the oak against a neighboring tree. When I returned home, there was only a mottled brown stump.

Once when I was away, my father died, his face gray on the pillow, his hands clutching at the sheets.

He was not an oak, but a sassafras, his strength in his resourcefulness. His wiry temperament was flexible in form, but not in adaptability, owing to a long taproot. With leaves of unpredictable shape, and flaming red foliage in fall, he was often the center of attention, particularly in his later years. At his feet, his progeny radiated in all directions forming a colony that spread throughout the Midwest.

While I was away, the impatiens froze, but their seeds were already safely planted in the fertile soil below.

Moon

.

The sun was already setting as the rake scraped the stones on the pathway. I crushed the leaves into the bag and clopped up the driveway, boots crunching small piles of leaves on the pavement.

In the distance, trees painted the sky dusky blue, then slate, then charcoal. In the branches, bushy knots of squirrel nests swayed gently in the cold evening air. Overhead, a half-moon rose through the bare branches of an oak and called to the single star to the South.

A continent lies between you and me. You have your dreams, in your teepee under a thousand stars on the West coast. And I am anchored in the East, in a brick house on a city lot, near a highway.

We are both under the night sky, but we do not see the same moon. You fold your teepee and wander by the light of the moon in a vast starry sky, in a world without end. I plant in a dark moon and nurture the roots in my garden, ever mindful of the boundaries.

In the darkness, a gentle breeze stroked my face. I whispered, "I love you, little nomad," but there was no answer.

November

Caladium leaves lie limp on the ground, their stems like spaghetti.

Hummingbird feeders are abandoned.

Mornings are dark and cold.

November. Complaints are abundant.

Life seems more precious in the scarcity of late autumn.

The crickets still sound in the evening. And maple trees release their golden leaves to drift from the canopy to the soil below, while the Japanese maple turns from purple to crimson.

The impatiens continue to throw off a few blooms, even the rare white one that reseeded itself.

Green headed coneflower and pineapple sage only bloom in the shorter days of autumn.

Pineapple sage has lost its scent, but it continues to bloom until Thanksgiving.

Hurry little fella. Winter will be here soon.