Friday, February 7, 2014
Huddled under a blanket of snow the winter garden rests. After yesterday’s fierce wind that blew trees and shrubs sideways as snowflakes swirled in white tornadoes, today the garden is perfectly still. The sedges’ slender blades look like brown hair against the white snow while the green, gold and blue conifers stand stiff and stark, dusted with snow. Grateful for a warm house and hot water, for the comfort of cats and tea, I do what I can while the garden sleeps. I bring in the frozen hummingbird feeders, thaw them out and refill them. This is a day when I’ll be in and out in the snow only as far as the posts where the feeders hang. I do not love winter. I look out and long for the garden, even after only one day of absence. Winter is a waiting time, and I’m not good at waiting. But along with the plants, and the hummingbirds, I must wait for the return of sun and warmth. Today will be a luxuriously restful day for thumbing through garden books, reading Anna Quindlen’s latest novel, and cooking soup. But I’d trade it all in for a day in the garden.