Written in Snow

snowyMichigan snow continues to amaze me. It’s fluffy. You can sweep it off the doorstep. Where I grew up on Long Island, snow had to be removed with an ice axe. I exaggerate, but not by much. I take my broom to the snow here and whoosh it lightly, like fairy dust, off the steps, onto the flowerbeds on either side. Here you go, lamium; here’s some for you, ceratostigma. More blanket. Sleep well.

It’s also a wonderful traffic map. I sleep past the morning scavenging of thesnow tracks deer, but they leave a record for me: the allure of standing seedheads in the herb garden; the shelter they found under pine trees. The woodchuck, heavy and low to the ground, hasn’t waited for her official day but has waddled a wake into the snow, emerging from under the deck and steering for the woods, or vice versa. I can’t read her signs well enough, yet, to tell the direction.

snow tracksAnd what kind of critter do you think made this deep, purposeful, extremely straight-lined track from the road to my front door? Too early for my garden orders to be delivered. Must have been something for Doug.

The tulip bulbs that arrived last fall have spent a few months in pots in the cold garage, and are ready for warmth and sunlight. I bring them in a few at a time, so they’ll bloom in waves. The paperwhites that were resting in their bag in my closet have been potted up now, too. The amaryllis that were lifted to a dry winter in an indoor basket after spending their summer on the shady part of the deck, are back in the dirt now, stretching. I will give progress reports. Here’s the first one.

windowsill

 

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