a week in wonders

I spent the entire winter daydreaming about my garden. 

I've bemoaned it before, but it bears repeating: it gets cold here in Minnesota. So cold it's sometimes hard to imagine that there is such a phenomenon as summer, and that it will come round again, as soon as the seasons shift and change. 

This past December was bitterly cold. Our forest was trapped in an icy stillness for days and days. No wind, just beautiful, perfect ice and snow. 

One of the coldest days in December found my brother and I in the forest taking pictures of some felted balls I made for my portfolio. When I needle felted them in November my thoughts were on seeds and my garden and the mysterious and myriad ways the forest stores and stacks its seeds in various packages.

Our fingers all but froze off as we tromped through the snow, arranging the balls and admiring the light. 

I can remember, I was so cold that I was wishing for summer, but at the same time it was difficult not to admire the elegant structure of the forest reveled by the cold. The lay of the land, accented by the snow. 

You should see my house on this late day in May, there are seed packets scattered on every surface. The garden is waiting in the side yard, halfway planted. It's funny now that I should be thinking of winter, when spring is finally everywhere. 

I think Andrew Wyeth put it perfectly when he said:

"I prefer winter and fall, when you can feel the bone structure in the landscape...Something waits beneath it - the whole story doesn't show. "

I know I wouldn't love the winter as much if I couldn't witness the overflowing frenzy of summer. The apples trees at the end of the garden are so filled with the buzzing of bees that I wouldn't be surprised if they suddenly took flight, trailing their tendriling roots and spattering dirt like confetti. 

I wonder where my apples would end up?