"Every Winter, when the great sun has turned his face away,
The earth goes down into a vale of grief,
And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables,
Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay...
Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses."
I am becoming a big fan of cottonwood leaves. They have a lovely shape to them, but they don't produce much color. In summer they are a pleasant enough green, rather medium, I think, and then in autumn they turn a light beige color. They become fragile quite early in autumn, and therefore picking them up is something you can't rush. If left alone, they decompose fairly quickly, within a couple days or so, and when they do, they can transform themselves from that beige, to an almost silver color. It's quite striking as a metaphor for the inevitable end of another year. As always, here I sit in January, and instead of celebrating the newness of the year, I am still seeing the death of the previous season and date on the calendar. Another autumn gone.
Winter's Soggy Cereal
January 16th, 2019