Bone chilling cold. Taking the compost out, the temperature, or lack of one, takes my breadth away. At 10 F in the shade, each puff hurts. When I exhale through my nostrils, little stalactites of ice form on my mustache. To me that is the sign of cold.
Most the plants stoically stand, unmoved much like the Steadfast Tin Soldier of Hans Christian Andersen fame. The coneflowers (Echinacea) have yet to give up all their seeds though some can be seen in the surrounding snow. Daylilly (Hemerocallis) seed heads have yet to do the same, snuggling their important genetic futures in a tight clasp. A few surrounding weeds do not have such a tight grip, drooping and letting their offspring scatter in the snow.
The hill behind the house shields me from the sun most of the day though as I head back inside I notice a bit of light hitting the fence. Looking closer I see a stem of a rose illuminated in the late afternoon light. The leaves still look alive but I know that is but a trick of the season. By now, my facial hair is frosted though no difference in color is apparent. Time to return to the house.
