Every day I look out toward the garden, I see little change. All of the plants and the grounds seem suspended in time. The growing season is over and the napping season has begun. The dominant color is brown, with the occasional sound of a dried-up leaf scraping against the patio slates, pushed by the wind. But non-evergreen greens are still about.
Moss blankets a downed maple trunk, hugging it tightly. Insects cuddle inside, worms and amphibians hide under waiting for a warm spell, which is months off. Christmas ferns poke through the leaf litter with their wide fronds spreading. All other ferns have long since retired for the season. And the tiny heart-shaped serrated leafs of garlic mustard are peeking out. I pick one, placing it into my mouth, savoring its spicy taste. They are best eaten young.
There are fewer scents in the yard as the cold has ceased much of the decay. Many of the standing remnants are perches and food sources for those creatures that are toughing out Winter here. The puffy, cotton-like white seed heads of thimbleweed (Anemone virginiana) stand high, unbent by the wind. The coneflower (Echinacea) seed heads are half eaten and will be cleaned off by Februrary. And our lone pin oak is the only tree still holding onto its leaves, preferring this tattered shield to that of nakedness.
Entering the house with kindling, I start a fire in the wood stove before dinner. Sitting down, I notice that dormancy is not universal as a tick crawls over a knuckle on my left hand.
